SYLVIA'S REVENGE, OR; A satire AGAINST MAN; IN ANSWER TO THE satire AGAINST Woman.  
Printed By AUTHORITY.  
LONDON, Printed by Joseph Streater, at the Globe near Paul's-Wharf in Thames-street, and are to be Sold by John Southby, at the Harrow in Cornhill, and most other Booksellers. MDCLXXXVIII.   

THE EPISTLE DEDICATORY: TO THOSE SNARLING CURS THE CRITICS.  
ANd why all this Noise and Splutter against the Women, Harmless Creatures! what have they done to deserve so many Lampoons, Libels, Satyrs? but methinks Gentlemen 'tis not fair Dealing, to commit Acts of open Hostility before you Proclaim a Warr. And we know what Feats you brag have been done, by your little Fireship called The satire against Woman: This Preface therefore is only to let you know, that we have rigged out a Female Man of War (if that been't Nonsense) with 30 Guns of a side, which Egad Gentlemen, (as Mr. Bays has it) we hope will maul you, and so much for that Point.  
But Now— what now? why it seems 'twas Nero, and not Caligula, that made such a Wish mentioned in Page 2d. why Gentlemen I hope you'll excuse the want of Learning in a Woman; since upon my word I never read Suetonius nor Tranquillus, for you all know; That a Box of Marmalade, Culpeppers Midwifery, a Prayer-Book, and two or three Plays, is all the Furniture of a Woman's Study.  
If any of the Characters suit with some Persons to me unknown? I solemnly profess, there is not one of them levelled against any person whatsoever, but a Skilful Painter, may by the strength of Fancy, draw a Face representing somebody, tho' no body sat for the Pictrue.   

Madam.  

TH' Invasion first with fierce Assaults began,  
And scattered wild Disorder as it ran,  
It was a War betwixt our Sex and Man.  
With haughty Pride the bold Tryumphers boast,  
And Cry the weaker Vessel's sunk and lost;  
Trophies along the gaudy Strand displayed,  
And never such Insulting Paeans made.  
Yet true it is, without a blush we own,  
Our Force in part was scattered and o'erthrown:  
With fright Surprised we knew not then the Foe,  
With Noise they hurried on, and flashed with show.  
Yet still unmoved our Body did remain,  
They only took some Stragglers on the Plain.  
To you the News with winged-hast we bore,  
You Smiled, and bid us stand, and said no more.  
Long you delayed indeed to aid us there,  
And they mistook your Scorn of them, for fear.  
You sent one Muse to View their Strength, she came,  
And told you 'twas but Noise and babbling Fame.  
Unguarded and how loose the Forces lay,  
And would you then advance you'd win the Day.  
With this alarmed your God-like-Genius rose,  
Lord! how aghast appeared your frighted Foes?  
At your approach, foiled and disarmed they yield,  
And scatter strange Confusion o'er the Field.  
With Numbers sweetly ranked you brought us aid,  
And show you can defend us and invade:  
Submissive at your Feet their General Craves,  
And you at Pleasure wound the baffled Slaves.    

A satire AGAINST MAN.  

THen must it thus, Ye Heavens for ever be,  
Will no kind Fate our Sex from Censure free?  
Must illbred Satyrs Chase us through the World,  
And shall no Thunder at the Slaves be hurled?  
Ye Gods! how long shall injured Virtue groan?  
How long shall Innocence be trampled on?  
Shall a bold Scribbling - Fop whose Head contains,  
A Thousand Maggots for One Dram of Brains,  
In Doggrel Rhyme, and much more Doggrel Sense,  
Vomit six pennyworth of Impertinence;  
Thrust it abroad, and in a Style not Common,  
Call it forsooth — A. satire Against Woman?  
A pretty Title— sure the Book must sell,  
Cries a Clapt-Spark, and likes it wondrous well,  
Another Laughs, and Snuffling in the Nose,  
egad (says he) the Subject's rarely chose;  
A third,— but hold the Slaves I must Engage,  
Inspire me Juno with a Woman's Rage,  
A Rage like that, when you by Spies were told,  
How finely Jupiter intreagued with Gold;  
Or when the shape of Bull and Swan put on,  
To get some Mortal Maidenhead was gone:  
Assist dear Goddess teach me how to write,  
Inform my satire when, and where to bite,  
That all the Race of lewd inconstant Men,  
May curse the time they roused a Woman's Pen,  
'Tis done,— a glowing heat my Breast inspires,  
Revenge inflames me, with its eager fires;  
Oh were the Race of Mankind in my Power,  
By all my Hopes, they should not live an hour,  
By Heaven Caligula, 'twas bravely done,  
To wish all Necks in Rome were shrunk to one,  
That at one blow they might receive their Fate.  
Yet Caesar, You were moderate in your hate,  
A part of Mankind, at your Rage would fall,  
But mine, (would heaven would grant it,) flies at all.   

Fear not my Muse the Monster to engage,  
But slight the passes of a Scribblers Rage,  
What tho' he struts in big affected Notes,  
You know the Muses still wear Petticoats,  
Those Darling she's, their Sex's Cause will own,  
Shall Angel-Woman, be by Man o'erthrown?  
— Man, the ignoble-word of Tell-tale-fame,  
My Paper blisters as I write the Name,  
Man, must I than the hated Name rehearse,  
Lord! how it stains my Ink and spoils my Verse,  
Man by some angry God in passion hurled  
Down, as a Plague to vex the Female World.  
A Spirit of Air and Flame may be withstood,  
But who can shun a Devil of flesh and blood?  
Man! hold my Muse thy Epithets give o'er,  
A Nobler Task will soon employ thy Store.  
Expose the Wretch in all his vicious Shapes,  
Trace him through all disguises all Escapes.  
For tho' his Vices are become his Trade,  
Yet Vice will sometimes Act in Masquerade.  
Let no fond pity thy resentments Spare,  
Let nought of Woman make the Lash forbore;  
Let him be Fop, Pimp, Cully, Fool or Knave,  
Lash till he fly for shelter to the Grave:  
That undeluded Females may be shown,  
What a choice Creature 'tis they dote upon.   

Nature has scarce wrote Man upon his Chin;  
But straight to Love the Stripling does begin.  
Tho' what it is he understands no more,  
Then Sailor's did the Compass heretofore.  
Whether the Playhouse, Church, or Boarding-School,  
Did with a Mistress furnish the young Fool,  
We cannot tell— but one at last is found,  
Whose Charms the Heart of young Philander wound  
The Trifle humbly at her Feet he lays,  
And as the Way of Courtship now a-days:  
Some Present— for a Bribe does slyly use,  
So by a Gift— his want of Gifts excuse;  
And that his Plots be more securely laid,  
He gets an Interest in the Chambermaid:  
But if from's Vows she turns her Scornful Eyes,  
And with disdain his formal courtship flies;  
A Lunatic transformed he then despairs,  
Looks wild, storms, rages, and devoutly swears,  
That if his Sylvia sends another Frown,  
Himself, himself, the Wretch himself will drown  
Before th' arrival of the next days Sun,  
And the next Tavern sees the Business done.  
Follow my Muse, you may if not too Clamorous,  
In a Red-sea of Claret find Sr. Amorous.  
Where powerful Love, yields to more powerful Wine,  
And prompts his Fancy to some new Design:  
His former Mistress like a Castoff - suit,  
Thrown by— another does his Heart recruit,  
To whom obliging Nature has been kind,  
In all the Gifts of Body and of Mind,  
Nor must her Fortune be forgot behind;  
With her he uses all the little Arts,  
Invented to surprise unguarded Hearts.  
No Treats are wanting that may bribe her Sense,  
And to her heart convey soft Love from thence.  
To Balls and Plays she's Daily ushered in,  
Tell me St. James' - park how oft you've seen, Grove,  
The Perjured wretch conduct her through the  
And whisper Tales of his pretended Love.  
How oft he kissed her hand, and softly swore,  
That she, and none but she he could adore,  
When the same time he Ogled at a Whore.  
His vigrou's Courtship overcomes the Fair,  
She can no longer such brisk Sallies bear.  
With blushes which too well the heart discover,  
The credulous Phillis, owns herself a Lover.  
Which mighty secret when the Wretch has known,  
Retires and all his Passion does disown.  
Disowned said I?— Ah certainly he'd none;  
And 'tis a part of his diversion made,  
To tell the World how th' Fair One was betrayed,  
Your Thunder-Gods! to strike the Villain dead.  
O could my Pen dart Lightning at the Slave,  
A fate deserved his Perjuries should have:  
But a Cursed Impotence attends me still,  
And Men must for the Deed accept the Will;  
But yet to show how far a Woman's Passion,  
Exceeds that modish Raillery now in fashion.  
For once let cheated Ariadne Speak,  
And if you any sense of Shame partake.  
Know perjured Men, 'twill make your Hearts to ache  
And will oblige our injured Sex to know it,  
The Story's true no Matter who's the Poet.   

When Theseus' false by unexpected Theft,  
Had Ariadne on black Naxos left,  
By him and his kind Sex exposed a Prey  
To Wolves and Tigers milder Beasts than they,  
Long her low Love and Nature's servile Chain,  
Her just, her pious Curses did restrain:  
But when far off his Perjured Galley flies,  
And rising Mountains screen her following Eyes.  
All Woman in here's banished by despair,  
Leaving a brave a dreadful Angel there,  
Thus did She all his treacherous Sex engage,  
And thus cursed on, inspired with heavenly Rage.   

Fly Villian Monster, Traitor, if I can,  
I'll call thee more than all, I'll call thee Man.  
Man— Natures blush medley of lust and Blood,  
All Man— degenerate from thy native Mudd,  
Pure sedement of Chaos, Devil all o'er.  
Thyself, thyself what need I call thee more;  
Perjured and treacherous, Monstrous, and ingrate,  
Deadly's your Love, more deadly than your Hate.  
Your charming Eyes are those which have betrayed,  
A tame, an easy, fond believing Maid.  
Find me one Wretch in all your hellish-bands,  
Whose Tongue han't done more Murders than his Hands.  
Crocodile are your tears, Sly silent lies,  
Hyaena's Voice, and Cockatrice's Eyes.  
Angels before you've cheated us and then,  
The cloven-foot peeps out, and you're all Devils again.  
When I my own weak Soul and Sex review,  
I hate myself and them as much as You.  
Why has black Destiny obliged us thus,  
To Dote upon a Mortal - Incubus,  
Oh that I could on the tame fools prevail,  
We'd die to make their viperous offspring fail.  
'Twould be but one cursed Age before they fell,  
And mouldered back into their native Hell.   

By heaven 'twas nobly wished and bravely thought,  
Were all our Sex with such intentions fraught.  
Hell would not long the treacherous Vermin spare,  
For slighted Love who can with patience bear?  
And tho' our Spark was Perjured once before,  
He'll tick with Hell for one false Promise more,  
And a whole Race of feigned Vows run o'er.  
No Woman shall monopolise his Heart,  
But every Female shall pretend a part.  
Inconstancy the Practised Vice of th' Age,  
Makes him all Women that he sees engage.   

One Woman takes him with her charming Air,  
This 'cause she's Black, the other 'cause she's Fair.  
Now now he dies for Sylvia's Charming Eyes,  
Till Caelia's Singing, did his Soul surprise;  
His trifling heart she for a while possessed,  
Till 'twas removed to Rosalinda's Breast:  
She could not long of her new Treasure Boast,  
The Skittish Thing soon took another Post.  
Octavia next would the Gay Bubble claim,  
But still for Daphn'e he'd a greater flame;  
For her he languished in soft fond desire,  
Till Florimena set his Heart on fire.  
A while indeed he revealed in her Arms,  
But soon was captived with Almeria's Charms:  
For full six hours she held her Airy Lover,  
Till Arrabella did new Charms discover:  
Her welcome Guest she did not long enjoy,  
But Lydia was presented with the Toy;  
And tho' she'd Magic that might cause its stay,  
Yet Claristella becond it away:  
In two hours' time the inclination fled,  
And Belvedira reigned in her stead,  
As Mistress long she had not boar Command,  
But th' Sceptre was resigned to Flora's hand  
False as the Wind, inconstant as the Wether,  
It ran away from her the Lord knows whether.   

His Love thus into various Channels cut,  
Bold Lust flows in, as fast as Love ebbs out.  
Lust, like a Fiend his Soul does haunt and vex,  
Lust, the Familiar Devil of the Sex;  
All sense of Reputation once abhorring,  
He list's himself a Proselyte for whoring.  
Whoring— what pleasures does the sound afford?  
Whoring that lovely fine delicious Word.  
A Virtuous Woman's troubled with ill Nature,  
But yet a Whore's a most obliging Creature:  
With her he all his Broken Vows repeats,  
With her he values no expense in Treats.  
What ever her fond Appetite can crave,  
'tis but to ask, and she as soon shall have.  
The Park and Playhouse see 'em still together,  
And he's her Cully for all sorts of Wether;  
And tho' some years before the Nothing fled,  
Yet he'll be thought to have her Maidenhead.  
A vicious constancy he now will own,  
And is not weary of her Service grown;  
While in her La, th' enchanted Coxcomb roks,  
She loveingly requites him with a P—   

But hold a while m' unwary headstrong Muse,  
In taxing Men I my one Sex Accuse.  
The Dart which at the other Sex was thrown,  
Recoils with all its force upon our own:  
And while the Cully I would fain explore,  
In lively colours I display the Whore.  
Like Sampson's Foxes tail to tail they're tied,  
And who the Loving couple would divide?  
Yet this for Jilts must in excuse be said,  
'Twas false base treacherous Man that them betrayed.  
And if some Hellish Arts and Tricks they know,  
To you kind Men they all their Knowledge owe,  
They were not Devils till you made'em so.   

From Fluxing or from private Hothouse come,  
For our last mentioned Cully make some room.  
Who tho' severely chastened for his Sins,  
His much loved trade of Whoring soon begins.  
So Floodgates which have long stopped watercourse,  
When opened make it fly with greater force.  
Not virtuous Ladies in his Lust he'd spare,  
Did not their Frowns make the bold Wretch forbear.  
His lust all manner of distinction Damns,  
'Twixt Country-nut-brown, or fine Court-Madams.  
Ugly or handsome, fair, black, brown, or yellow,  
Tall, short, fat, lean, he swears she's not her fellow.  
Abroad he fastens upon all he meets,  
The Sex's common Scarecrow in the Streets.  
Where Widows, Wives, and Maids, he boldly seizes,  
Ones Breast, and tother's Hand he rudely squeezes.  
But if he finds 'em civil or not right,  
Damn 'em says he, they're Virtuous out of spite.  
He roves not long, till some kind Jenny pass,  
And she with him takes one refreshing Glass.  
Some paltry Chink to tempt her he'll expose,  
And she on him a swinging Clap bestows.  
Who in few days finding his old Guest come;  
At some Quack-Doctors takes a private Room.  
The Quacks those lewd Impostors of the Times,  
Famed for their Pills, their Spirits, and their Rhymes.  
With promised hopes, expecting Fops betray,  
And send them more Distempered thence away,  
Gulled of their Health, and cheated of their Pay.  
Death throw the Town is scattered in their Bills,  
And Execution swallowed with their Pills.  
'Twould blast a modest Muse to'approach too near,  
A Dire Infection stains the neighbouring Air.  
Here draw the Veil and let the Wretches lie,  
Cursing the effects of their base Lechery.   

What Gaudy thing from China or Japan,  
Is this appears?— it cannot sure be Man.  
And yet it talks, and looks, and walks like one,  
Of those we call the modish Sparks o'th' Town.  
Man's the least part about him that appears,  
Sure he was got between some Tailor's Shears.  
Oh what a breadth, what mighty Port he bears;  
A dozen Farms upon his back he wears.  
Point de venee must now adorn his Knees;  
Whose Ancestors wore nought but homely Frieze.  
In a long Wigg must our Sr. Taudry strut;  
Whose Father wore the old Geneva-cut.  
Dressing himself till noon the Fop must be,  
The Royal Sovereign's sooner rigged than he.  
Each day he spends some hours before the Glass,  
To make himself a most accomplished Ass.  
Studies new Smiles and Cringes when alone,  
And practices abroad what there was done;  
Pride is the Mistress he does hourly serve,  
His ear is bored and he must never swerve:  
Pride which to learn the Women but begin,  
In Men is grown a most habitual Sin.  
Along the Park methinks I see him pass,  
With formal steps he traverses the Grass;  
If any Ladies Ey'es but towered him move,  
He thinks (Vain Fool) that they're with him in Love.  
But if th' advance, and to him come but nigh,  
He gives'em the kind Squint and passes by;  
Indeed he does it most Judiciously.  
Then Spanish Snush, to Modish Nose is put,  
At which Perfumed Handkercheifs drawn out;  
T'adjust some bold disorder in the Face,  
And put the Chin-patch in its proper place.  
Then hums a Tune and passing through the Streets,  
With his dear Friend the brisk Sr. Fopling meets;  
With open Arms they'mbrace— Dear Jack how is't?  
Welcome from France, and then I think they Kist.  
What news from Paris are the Ladies fine,  
Shall we at Lockets Ordinary Dine.  
What Novels, Songs, or Fashions hast brought over,  
Are th' Lady's Kind, I prithee Jack discover?  
And thus does more Impertinence run threw,  
Then ever Gossips at a Cristning Knew.   

Nay— 'tis not all his Huffing shall excuse,  
The Bully from the lash of angry Muse;  
Bully how great i'th' Mouth the Accent sounds;  
Bully who nothing breathes but Bl— d and W— nds?  
Some Devil did sure on Nature act a Rape,  
And his own likeness get in human shape;  
More Oaths and Curses not the Damned Vent,  
Than from the Bullies Brimstone-Lungs are sent.  
The Devil himself is all amazed to see,  
A wretch more impiously bold than he;  
He for one daring Act was sent to Hell,  
But th'others loud G—d D— me's who can tell?  
Like Tom a'Bedlam he invades the Streets,  
And Quarrels, Huffs, and Fights with all he meets.  
But if that one whose valour scorns to stoop,  
To Noise and Nonsense take the Villain up;  
And satisfaction for th' Affront demand,  
Sr. Fright-all lours his Topsail to your hand.  
Your Pardon Sr. says he, I must request,  
By G— I thought you'd understood a jest,  
His Bilbo sheathed he decently retires,  
Tutor to young raw Fops and Country Squires.   

Would you my Muse of Hell the Picture view,  
And what Distracted Looks the Damned show;  
Go to some Gaming-Ordinary where,  
Shamwell and Cheatly and such Rooks repair,  
To sharp the City - Prigg or Country - Heir.  
Oaths loud as Thunder shake the trembling room,  
And pointed Curses sign each others Doom.  
The Pox, the Plague, and all the Ills that fall,  
On wretched Mortals on themselves they call;  
While they by the uncertain chance of Dice,  
Lose Manors, Lands, and Lordships in a Trice.  
And what Old Gripwel, Scores of years was getting,  
Is lost at Hazard in an hours sitting:  
The loss of Guineas proves the loss of sense,  
For against Chance how can there be Defence.  
Anger Dispair and Fury fill the Face;  
And Passion justles Reason out of Place.  
At last a Wretch with home the Furies dwell,  
Is by a fatal thrust dismissed to Hell.  
T' inform old Nick, that all the rest agree,  
Shortly to come and bear him Company.   

The Keeping Spark should next have been exposed,  
But that's a Text has one great Poet posed,  
A satire cannot fright him into shame,  
Whose Presence damned the well-wrote Limberhamm.  
I might have told what Arts and Tricks are laid,  
T'ensnare the virtuous young unthinking Maid.  
What sly decoys are used t'intrap the Fair;  
What trusty Pimp did in the Office share.  
What reverend Bawds made use of to entice,  
The Fair One's liking of that modish Vice:  
How she at last is guided to his Arms;  
Where Victor like he triumphs in her Charms.  
How long she does the Airy Title hold;  
And how her Joys are scarce a Twlvemonth old,  
Before kind Keeper takes another Miss;  
But sad experience knows too much of this.   

My Task were endless, I should never stop;  
Were I obliged t'expose each sort of Fop.  
The rambling Fop from France but newly come,  
That went out sound and brought Diseases home.  
The Squeamish Fop so nice in all things grown,  
Sr. Courtly has his fellow Fools in Town.  
The Lazy Fop that lies a Bed till Noon,  
And wonders how he chanced to rise so soon:  
The Fop which does to Business make pretence,  
Yet never guilty known of too much Sense;  
The City Fop that modish would appear,  
And puts on Sword and Wigg at Temple-barr.  
The cringing Fop that does to all Men bow;  
The sharping Fop, that lives the Lord knows how.  
The noisy Fop would talk a Man to Death,  
The swearing Fop, that lives on perjured Breath:  
But hold— I might as well attempt to show,  
What various Weeds on Banks of Nilus grow:  
What sort of Monsters Africa Deserts bear,  
As tell how many sorts of Fops there are;  
We need not long be puzzled how to call Men,  
For Fop is grown a common Name for all Men.   

Forgetful Muse, that'mongst the Slaves that vex,  
And daily torture our too harmless Sex,  
You should forget that hateful Plague of Life,  
Husband, the constant Jailor of a Wife;  
Husband's— the cursed alotment of our Fate,  
Husband the thing, that of all things we hate;  
Fops plague us but by turns, and then they've done,  
But Husband's Plagues are ever but begun;  
And tho' each Day we wish the Slavery done,  
We find our Chains as constant as the Sun.   

If Jealousy, that Maggot of the Pate,  
Possess the Sot, how violent is his Hate?  
What cursed Suspicions haunt his tortured Mind,  
And make him look, for what he would not find?  
To''th' Looking-Glass he dares not cast an Eye,  
For fear he should his - fine-brow antlers Spy.  
Nothing but Females must i'th' house appear,  
And not a Dog or Cat that's Male be there:  
Nay least th'unhappy Wife should have her Longings,  
He cuts out all the Men i'th' Tapstry-hanging.  
If but a harmless Letter to here's sent,  
He'll make it own worse Sense than e'er it meant,  
And e'er the Letter from his hands be cast,  
He'll make it speak some deadly Crime at last.  
In a cursed Garret cloistered up for Life,  
Lives Female-Innocence miscal'd a Wife.  
Denied those Pleasures are to Virtue granted,  
Yet by the Devil of a Husband haunted:  
For a Release, she cannot hope nor pray,  
Till milder Death take him, or her away:  
If her she's happy— and if him she's blest;  
Till to her Arms she take a second Guest:  
But where's a Woman of all Sense so void?  
Won't shun—  
That Gulf wherein she'd like t've been destroyed.   

If Beauty, Wit, or Complaisance could do?  
Her's Woman that can all these Wonders show;  
Beauty that might new Fire to Hermits lend;  
And Wit which serves that Beauty to defend.  
When courted she did Wonders with her Charms,  
Till Parson conjured her to Husband Arms.  
And tho' the same Perfections still remain;  
Yet nothing now can the Dull Creature gain:  
No looks can win him, nor no smiles invite;  
The Wretch does her, and her Endearments slight;  
And leaves those Graces which he should adore,  
To Dote upon some ugly Suburb-Whore;  
While poor neglected Spouse remains at home,  
With Discontent and Sorrow overcome.  
No Prayers nor Tears, nor all the Virtuous Arts,  
Which Women use to tame Rebellious Hearts:  
Can the Incorrigible Husband move,  
And make him own his once so promised Love.  
Consider! Lord! 'twill make his head grow giddy,  
He says he is not yet for Bedlam ready:  
But the next time that you through Ludgate pass,  
Through Grates you'll see the loving Spend-All's Face:  
And 'twil some Pleasure be the Wretch to view,  
Ang'ing for single Money in a Shoe.   

Tell me you grave Disputers of the Schools,  
You Learned Coxcombs, and you well-read Fools:  
You that have told us Man must be our Head;  
And made Dame Nature Pimp to what you've said.  
Tell me when Husband drenched in Claret reels,  
And slips by th'Motion of his treacherous Heels.  
That Head he has we all confess and own,  
But what's the Head, when once the Sense is gone?   

Oh! she's a happy, too too happy Bride,  
That has a Husband Snoring by her side:  
Belching out Fumes of undigested Wine,  
And lies all Night like a good natured Swine:  
Whose Snoring serves for Music to her Ears;  
And keeps true Consort with her silent Tears:  
That can himself no more than Chaos move,  
And still neglects the great Affair of Love.  
She may indeed assume the Name of Wife,  
But others know she's but a Nurse for Life.   

A Drunken Husband may pretend good Nature:  
But here's a Sullen Matrimonial-Creature;  
Will, and will not, will ask, and will deny;  
Is pevish, Cross, and cannot tell for why.  
Not one kind look he will to Spouse afford,  
Not one kind Smile, perhaps not one kind Word.  
All the obliging Arts that she can use,  
To reconcile this angry pevish Spouse;  
Avail no more, than if she took delight,  
In washing Bricks, or swarthy Negro's white.  
Lions and Tigers Men have learned to tame,  
Retaining nothing frightful but their Name:  
With low submission have their Keeper's owned,  
And trembled when their Masters have but frowned:  
But Man, unruly Man, that Beast of Reason,  
Against Woman still continues in his Treason:  
No Charms his damned ill-nature can release,  
Satan, must only Satan Dispossess.   

Are these ye Gods, the Sov'raigns we must own?  
Must we before these golden Calves bow down?  
Forgive us Heaven if we renounce the Elves,  
We'll make a Commonwealth among ourselves:  
Where by the Laws, that we shall then Ordain,  
We'll make it Capital to mention Man.  
Man we'll, for ever banish from our sight,  
Not talk by day, nor think of'em by night:  
We'll shun their Courtship as we'd do the Plague,  
And loathe 'em more, than they a toothless-Hagg:  
'Tis not their Sighs, their, Cringeing nor their Prayers,  
Their supple Whinings, nor their treacherous Tears:  
That shall one kind Return for ever gain;  
But when t'oblidge us they've done all they can.  
We'll laugh, deride, and scorn the Fopish Sex;  
And wrack Invention for new Way's to vex.  
Till they to shun us prompted by Dispair;  
Or Drown themselves, or Hang in cleanly Air.  
Thus when to Hell by Shoals the Men are hurled,  
Women will Reign as Monarches of the World.   

But if amongst us there should chance to be,  
One silly fond regardless foolish She:  
That spite of all our Edicts will maintain,  
A League with that detested Creature Man:  
Good Council first shall strive to bring her off;  
But if the Fool will that good method Scoff;  
We'll try what next our heavy threatenings do;  
But her Cursed Treasons, if she still pursue.  
If she the freedom of her Sex will leave,  
And love a Wretch she knows that will Deceive?  
From pity we'll exempt the Female Sot;  
That wretched thing, a Husband be her Lot.  
Jealous by Day, and Impotent by Night;  
Have neither Shape nor Mein to please the sight.  
Diseased in Body and Deformed in Soul,  
Conceited, Proud, yet all the while a Fool.  
Poor to a Proverb, Lazy, yet as Poor,  
And still want Credit for to run on Score.  
May she with him spin out a tedious Life;  
Blest with that much admired Title Wife.  
And may no Female better Fate partake,  
That dares profane, the wholesome Laws we make.   
FINIS.   


ADVERTISEMENT.  
GLAUBER'S WORKS Complete, Translated out of the Latin and Germane Tongues, by the extraordinary Labour, and great Charge of CHRISTOPHER PACK Chemist, is now Printing in English in an Entire Volume in Folio, which is supposed will be near three Hundred Sheets of Paper, with divers Copper Cuts Curiously Engraven; adapted and inserted to their Proper Subjects.  
Whomsoever are willing to Subscribe to the Proceeding in so Excellent and Necessary a Work, are desired to Repair to the House of the Said CHRISTOPHER PACK, at the Globe in the Postern near Moregate, where they may be furnished with Proposals, for Carrying on the same; in which there is a brief Collection, of some of the Surprising Subjects, tho' not a Tithe of what it Contains, it being necessary for all manner of Persons, out of which they may Collect somthingmore beneficial in their own Employments by far, than the Price of the Whole.   

Books Printed, and are to be Sold by John Southby at the Harrow, in Cornhill, London.  
The Marrow of Astrology, in two Books, wherein is contained the Natures of the Signs and Planets, also a Table of Houses, with all other Necessaries, requisite for the Rectifying and Directing Nativities; unto which in this second Edition, is added an Appendix, and several Exemplary Additions; by John Bishop, Philomath. 4to.  
The Benefit of Early Piety, recomended to all young Persons, and particularly to those of the City of London. The second Edition, Part I. By W. Smythies. Duod.  
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