Love given o'er: OR, A satire AGAINST THE Pride, Lust, and Inconstancy, etc. OF WOMAN.  
LONDON, Printed for R. Bentley, and J. Tonson. 1685.   

TO THE READER.  
THE Pious Endeavours of the Gown, has not proved more ineffectual in the reclaiming the Errors of a vicious Age, than satire (the better way, tho' less practised) the amendment of Honesty, and good Manners amongst us. Nor is it a wonder, when we consider that Women, (as if they had the ingredient of Fallen-Angel in their composition) the more they are lashed, are but the more hardened in Impenitence: and as Children in some violent Distemper, commonly spit out those cherishing Cordials, which if taken, might chase away the Malady: So they (inspired as 'twere with a natural averseness to Virtue) despise that wholesome Counsel, which is Religiously designed for their future good, and happiness. Judge then, if satire ever had more need of a sharper sting than now: when he can look out of his Cell on no side, but sees so many Objects beyond the reach of indignation. Nor is it altogether unreasonable for me (while others are lashing the Rebellious Times into Obedience) to have one fling at Woman, the Original of Mischief. Although I'm sensible I might as well expect to see Truth and Honesty uppermost in the World, as think to be free from the Bitterness of their Resentments: But I have no reason to be concerned at that; since I'm certain my design's as far from offending the good, (if there are any amongst 'em that can be said to be so) as those few that are good, would be offended at their Reception into the Eternal Inhabitations of Peace, to be Crowned there with the Sacred Reward of their Labours. As for those that are ill, if it reflect on them, it succeeds according to my wish; for I have no other design but the amendment of Vice, which if I could but in the least accomplish, I should be well pleased; and not without reason too; for it must needs be a satisfaction to a young unskilful Archer, to hit the first Mark he ever aimed at.  
Farewell.   

Love given o'er: OR, A satire AGAINST WOMAN.  

AT length from Love's vile Slavery I am free,  
And have regained my ancient Liberty:  
I've shaken those Chains off which my bondage wrought,  
Am free as Air, and unconfined as thought;  
For faithless Silvia I no more adore,  
Kneel at her feet, and pray in vain no more:  
No more my Verse shall her fled worth proclaim,  
And with soft praises celebrate her Name:  
Her Frowns do now no awful terrors bear;  
Her Smiles no more can cure or cause despair.  
I've banished her for ever from my Breast,  
Banished the proud Invader of my rest,  
Banished the Tyrant Author of my woes,  
That robbed my Soul of all its sweet repose:  
Not all her treacherous, Arts, bewitching Wiles,  
Her Sighs, her Tears, nor her deluding Smiles,  
Shall my eternal Resolution move,  
Or make me talk, or think, or dream of Love:  
The whining Curse I've banished from my Mind,  
And with it, all the thoughts of Womankind.  
Come then my Muse, and since th' occasion's fair,  
'Gainst the lewd Sex proclaim an endless War;  
Which may renew as still my Verse is read,  
And live, when I amaningled with the dead:  
Discover all their various sorts of Vice,  
The Rules by which they ruin and entice,  
Their Folly, Falshood, Lux'ry, Lust, and Pride,  
With all their numerous Race of Crimes beside:  
Unveil 'em quite to every vulgar Eye,  
And in that shameful posture let 'em lie,  
Till they (as they deserve) become to be  
Abhorred by all Mankind, as they be abhorred by me.   

Woman! by heavens the very Name's a Crime,  
Enough to blast, and to debauch my Rhyme.  
Sure Heaven itself (entranced) like Adam lay,  
Or else some banished Fiend usurped the sway  
When Eve was formed; and with her, ushered in  
Plagues, Woes, and Death, and a new World of Sin.  
The fatal Rib was crooked and unev'n,  
From whence they have their Crablike Nature given;  
Averse to all the Laws of Man, and Heaven.   

O Lucifer, thy Regions had been thin,  
Were't not for Woman's propagating Sin:  
'Tis they alone that all true Vices know;  
And send such Throngs down to thy Courts below:  
More Souls 've made obedient to thy Reign,  
Than Heaven, and Earth, and Seas beside, contain.  
True, the first Woman gave the first bold Blow,  
And bravely sailed down to th' Abyss below;  
But had the great Deed still been left undone,  
None of the daring Sex, no, hardly one,  
But in the very selfsame path would go,  
Tho' sure 'twould lead 'em to eternal woe:  
Find me ye powers, find one amongst 'em all,  
That does not envy Eve the glory of the Fall:  
Be cautious then, and guard your Empire well;  
For should they once get power to rebel,  
They'd surely raise a Civil-War in Hell,  
Add to the pains you feel; and make you know,  
weare here above, as Cursed as you below.   

How happy had we been, had Heaven designed  
Some other way to propagate our kind?  
For whatsoever those All-discerning Powers  
Created Good: Wife! Nauseous Wife! turned sour;  
Debauched th' innocent, Ambrosial meat,  
And (like Eves Apple) made it Death to eat:  
But cursed be the vile Name, and cursed be they,  
Who are so tamely Dull as to obey.  
The Slaves they may command; Is there a Dog,  
Who, when he may have freedom, wears a Clog?  
But Man, base Man, the more imprudent Beast,  
Drags the dull weight when he may be released:  
May such ye Gods (too many such we see)  
While they live here, just only live, to be  
The marks of Scorn, Contempt, and Infamy.  
But if the Tide of Nature boisterous grow,  
And would Rebelliously its Banks overflow,  
Then choose a Wench, who (full of lewd desires)  
Can meet your floods of Love with equal fires;  
And will, when e'er you let the Deluge fly,  
Through an extended Sluice straight drain it dry;  
That Whirl-pool Sluice which never knows a Shore,  
ne'er can be filled so full as to run o'er,  
For still it gapes, and still cries— room for more!  
Such only damn the Soul; but a damned Wife,  
Damns that, and with it all the Joys of Life:  
And what vain Blockhead is so dull, but knows,  
That of two Ills the least is to be chose.   

But now, since Woman's boundless Lust I name,  
Woman's unbounded Lust I'll first proclaim:  
Trace it through all the secret various ways,  
Where it still runs in an eternal Maze:  
And show that our lewd Age has brought to view,  
What impious Sodom, and Gomorrah too,  
Were they what once they were, would blush to do.  
True, I confess that Rome's Imperial Whore,  
(More Famed for Lust, than for the Crown she wore)  
Aspired to Deeds so impiously high,  
That their immortal Fame will never die:  
Into the public Stews (disguised) she thrust,  
To quench the raging Fury of her Lust:  
Her part against th' Assembly she made good,  
And all the Sallies of their Lust withstood,  
And detained 'em dry? exhausted all their store;  
Yet all could not content th' insatiate Whore,  
Her C— like the dull Grave, still gaped for more.  
This, this she did, and bravely got her Name,  
Born up for ever on the Wings of Fame:  
Yet this is poor, to what our Modern Age  
Has hatched, brought forth, and acted on the Stage.  
Which for the Sex's glory I'll rehearse;  
And make that deathless, as that makes my Verse.   

Who knew not (for to whom was she unknown)  
Our late illustrious Bewley? (true, she's gone  
To answer for the numerous Ills sh'as done;  
Who, tho' in Hell (in Hell, if any where)  
Hemmed round with all the flames and tortures there,  
Finds 'em not fiercer, though shefeels the worst,  
Then when she lived, her own wild flames of Lust.)  
As Albion's Isle fast rooted in the Main,  
Does the rough Billows raging force disdain,  
Which tho' they foam, and with loud terrors roar,  
Yet they can never reach beyond their shore.  
So she with Lust's Enthusiastic Rage,  
Sustained all the salt Stallions of the Age.  
Whole Legions she encountered, Legions fired;  
Insatiate yet, still fresh Supplies desired.  
Illustrious Bawd! whose Fame shall be displayed,  
When Heroes Glories are in Silence laid,  
I as profound a Silence, as the Slaves  
Their conquering Swords dispatched into their Graves.  
But Bodies must decay; for 'tis too sure,  
There's nothing from the Jaws of Time secure.  
Yet, when she found that she could do no more,  
When all her Body was one putrid Sore,  
Studded with Pox, and Ulcers quite all o'er;  
Even then, by her delusive treacherous Wiles,  
(Which showed most specious when they most beguiled)  
She enroled more Females in the List of Whore,  
Than all the Arts of Man e'er did before.  
Pressed with the ponderous guilt, at length she fell,  
And through the solid Centre sunk to Hell:  
The murmuring Fiends all hovered round about,  
And in hoarse howls did the great Bawd salute;  
Amazed to see a sordid lump of Clay,  
Stained with more various bolder Crimes than they:  
Nor were her torments less; for the dire Train,  
Soon sent her howling through the rolling flames,  
To the sad seat of everlasting pain.  
Cresswold, and Stratford, the same Path do tread;  
In Lust's black Volumes so profoundly read,  
That wheresoever they die, we well may fear,  
The very tincture of the Crimes they bear,  
With strange infusion may inspire the dust,  
And in the Grave commit true acts of Lust.   

And now, if so much to the World's revealed,  
Reflect on the vast Stores that lie concealed,  
How, when into their Closets they retire,  
Where flaming Dil—s does inflame desire,  
And gentle Lap-d— s feed the amorous fire:  
Lap-d— s! to whom they are more kind and free,  
Than they themselves to their own Husbands be.  
How cursed is Man! when Brutes his Rivals prove,  
Even in the sacred Business of his Love.  
Great was the wise Man's saying, great, as true;  
And we well know, than he none better knew;  
Even he himself acknowledges the Womb  
To be as greedy as the gaping Tomb:  
Take Men, Dogs, Lions, Bears, all sorts of Stuff,  
Yet it will never cry— there is enough.  
Nor are their Consciences (which can betray  
Where e'er they're sworn to love) less large than they;  
Consciences, so lewdly unconfined!  
That every one would, could they act their mind,  
To their own single share engross even all Mankind.  
And when the Mind's corrupt, we all well know,  
The actions that proceed from't must be so.  
Their guilt's as great who any ills would do,  
As theirs who freely do those ills pursue:  
That they would have it so their Crime assures;  
Thus if they durst, all Women would be Whores.  
Forgive me Modesty, if I have been  
In any thing I have mentioned here, Obscene;  
Since my Design is to detect their Crimes,  
Which (like a Deluge) overflow the Times:  
But hold— Why should I ask that Boon of thee,  
When 'tis a doubt if such a thing there be;  
For Woman in whose Breasts thou'rt said to reign,  
And show the glorious Conquests thou dost gain,  
Despises thee, and only Courts thy Name:  
(Sounds tho' we cannot see, yet we may hear;  
And wonder at their Echoing through the Air.)  
Thus led by what delusive Fame imparts,  
We think thy Throne's erected in their Hearts;  
But weare deceived; as faith we ever were,  
For if thou art, I'm sure thou art not there:  
Nothing in those vile Mansions does reside,  
But rank Ambition, Luxury, and Pride.  
Pride is the Deity they most adore;  
Hardly their own dear selves they cherish more:  
When she commands, her Dictates they obey  
As freely, as the Lamp that guides the Day,  
Rowls round the Globe to its great Maker's Will;  
Vain senseless Sex! how swift they fly to ill;  
'Tis true, Pride revels chief in the Heart,  
From whence she does diffuse with impious Art  
Her nauseous Poison into every part:  
Survey their very Looks, you'll find it there;  
How can you miss it when 'tis every where?  
Some, through all hunted Nature's Secrets trace,  
To fill the Furrows of a wrinkled Face;  
And after all their toil (pray, mark the Curse)  
've only made that which was bad, much worse.  
As some in striving to make ill Coin pass,  
Have but the more discovered that 'twas Brass.  
Nay those that are reputed to be fair,  
And know how courted, and admired they are,  
Who one would think God had made so complete,  
They had no need to make his Gifts a Cheat;  
Yet they too in adulteration share,  
And would in spite of Nature be more fair.  
Deluded Woman! tell me, where's the gain,  
In spending Time upon a thing so vain?  
Your precious Time, (O to yourselves unkind!)  
When 'tis uncertain 've an hour behind  
Which you can call your own: For tho' y'are Fair,  
And beautiful as Guardian Angels are;  
Adorned by Nature, fitted out by Art,  
In all the Glories that delude the Heart:  
Yet tell me, tell; have they the power to save?  
Or can they privilege you from the Grave?  
The Grave which favours not the Rich or Fair;  
Beauty with the Beast lies undistinguished there.   

But hold— methinks I'm interrupted here,  
By some Gay-Fop I neither Love nor Fear;  
Who in these words his weakness does reveal,  
And hurts that Wound which he should strive to heal.   

" Soft Sir, methinks you too inveterate grow;  
" Y'are so much theirs, y'are to yourself a Foe,  
" And more your Envy, than Discretion show.  
" who'd Blame the Sun because she shines so bright,  
" That we can't gaze upon his dazzling light?  
" When at the selfsame time he cheers the Earth,  
" And gives the various Plants, and Blossoms birth.  
" How does the Winter look, that naked thing,  
" Compared with the fresh Glories of the Spring?  
" Rivers, adorn the Earth; the Fish, the Seas;  
" Flowers, and Grass the Meadows; Fruit the Trees;  
" The Stars, the Fields of Air through which they ride;  
" And Woman, all the works of God beside:  
" Yet base detracting Envy wont allow  
" They should adorn themselves; then pray Sir, now  
" Produce some Reason's why y'are so severe;  
For envious as you are you know they're Fair.   

True Sir say I— so were those Apples too,  
Which in the midst of the first Garden grew;  
But when they were examined, all within,  
Wrapped in a specious and alluring skin,  
Lay the rank baits of never dying Sin.  
Nature made all things fair; 'tis not denied;  
And dressed 'em in an unaffected Pride:  
The Earth, the Meadows, Rivers, Woods, and Flowers,  
Proclaim the skill of their great Maker's power;  
And as they first were made, do yet remain,  
And all their primitive Beauties still retain.  
Nothing but vain fantastic Woman's changed;  
And through all Mischief's various Mazes ranged:  
And with strange frantic Folly they have shown,  
(Folly peculiar to themselves alone)  
More ways to Pride, Sloth, and all sorts of Sin,  
Than there are Fires in Hell to plunge 'em in.  
Thus that they're Fair, you see is not denied;  
But tell me, are th' Unhansom free from Pride;  
No no; the Straight, the Crooked, Ugly, Fair,  
Have all promiscuously an equal share.  
Thus Sir, you see how they're estranged and strayed,  
From what by Nature they at first were made.  
Yet tho' so many of their Crimes I've named,  
That's still untold for which they most are Famed:  
A Sin! (tall as the Pyramids of old)  
From whose aspiring top we may behold  
Enough to damn a World— what should it be,  
But (Curse upon the name!) Inconstancy?  
O tell me, does the World those Men contain  
(For I have looked for such but looked in vain)  
Who ne'er were drawn into their Fatal Snares?  
Fatal I call 'em, for he's damned that's there.  
Inspired then by your Wrongs and my just spite,  
I'll bring the Fiend unmasked to humane sight,  
Tho' hid in the black Womb of deepest Night.  
No more the Wind, the faithless Wind, shall be  
A Simile for their Inconstancy;  
For that sometimes is fixed, but Woman's Mind,  
Is never fixed, or to one Point inclined:  
Less fixed than in a Storm the Billows be;  
Or trembling Leaves upon an Aspen Tree,  
Which ne'er stand still, but (every way inclined)  
Turn twenty times with the least breath of Wind.  
Lesle fixed than wanton Swallows while they play  
In the Sunbeams, to welcome in the Day:  
Now yonder, now they're here, as soon are there,  
In no place long, and yet are every where  
Like a tossed Ship their Passions fall and rise,  
One while you'd think it touched the very Skies,  
When straight upon the Sand it groveling lies.  
Even she herself, Silvia, th' loved and fair,  
Whose one kind look could save me from despair;  
She, she whose Smiles I valued at that rate,  
To enjoy them I scorned the frowns of Fate;  
Even she herself (but Ah! I'm loath to tell,  
Or blame the Crimes of one I loved so well;  
But it must out) even she, swift as the Wind,  
Swift as the airy motions of the Mind,  
At once proved false, and perjured, and unkind.  
Here they to day invoke the Powers above,  
As Witnesses to their Immortal Love;  
When (lo!) away the airy Fantom flies,  
And e'er it can be said to live, it dies:  
Thus all Religious Vows, and Oaths they break,  
With the same ease and freedom as they speak.  
Nor is that sacred Idol, Marriage free,  
(Marriage! which musty Drones affirm to be  
The tye of Souls, as well as Bodies! nay,  
The Spring that does through unseen Pipes convey  
Fresh sweets to Life, and drives the bitter dregs away!  
The Sacred Flame, the Guardian Pile of Fire,  
That guides our steps to peace! nor does expire,  
Till it has left us nothing to desire!  
Even thus adorned, the Idol is not free  
From the swift turns of their Inconstancy.  
Witness the Ephesian Matron, whose lewd Act,  
Has made her name Immortal as the Fact:  
Who to the Grave with her dead Husband went,  
And closed herself up in his Monument;  
Where on cold Marble she lamenting lay,  
In sighs, she spent the Night; in Tears, the Day.  
The wondering World extolled her faithful Mind,  
Extolled her as the best of Womankind:  
But see the World's mistake; and with it, see  
The strange effects of wild Inconstancy!  
For she herself, even in that sacred Room,  
With one brisk, vigorous Onset was o'ercome,  
And made a Brothel of her Husband's Tomb:  
Whose pale Ghost trembled in its Sacred ,  
Wondering that Heaven th' Impious Act allowed:  
Horror in Robes of Darkness stalked around;  
And through the frighted Tomb did Groans resound.  
The very Marbles wept, the Furies howled,  
And in hoarse Murmurs their amazement told.  
All this shook not the Dictates of her Mind,  
But with a boldness, bold as was her Crime,  
She made her Husband's Ghost (in Death, a Slave!)  
Her necessary Pimp, even in his Grave!  
Are these (ye Gods) the Virtues of a Wife?  
The Peace that Crowns a Matrimonial Life?  
Is this the Sacred Prize for which Man fights?  
Bliss, of his Days? and Rapture, of his Nights?  
The Rains, that guide him in his wild Careers?  
And the Supporter of his feeble Years?  
His Freedom, in his Chains? in Want his Store?  
His Health, in Sickness? and his Wealth, when Poor?  
No, no, 'tis Contradiction opposite,  
As much as heavens to Hell or Day's to Night.  
They crown Man's Life with Peace? no, rather far,  
They are the cause of all his Bosom-war;  
The very Source, and Fountain of his Woes,  
Ftom whence Despair, and Doubt for ever flows:  
The Gall, that mingles with his best delight;  
Rank, to the Taste; and nauseous to the Sight:  
A Days, the weight of Care that clogs his Breast,  
At Night the Hag that does disturb his rest:  
His mortal Sickness in the midst of Health;  
Chains, in his Freedom; Poverty in Wealth:  
Th' Eternal Pestilence, and Plague of Life;  
Th' Original, and Spring of all his Strife;  
These rather are the Virtue, of a Wife!  
Yet if all these should not sufficient be,  
To make us understand our misery,  
See it summed up in their Inconstancy:  
In which, so many various ways they move,  
They now Inconstant in their Follies prove,  
Even as inconstant as they do in Love:  
Nor is't alone confined in those to range,  
Their Vices too themselves admit of change,  
Their dearest darling Vices, Lust, and Pride,  
With all they promise, think, or dream beside:  
O how inconstant then must Woman be,  
When constant only in Inconstancy?   

O why, ye awful Powers, why was't your Will  
To mix our solid good with so much ill?  
Unless 'twere when you found rebellious Man,  
(For 'ere time was you could their Actions scan)  
Would commit Crimes so impious, and high,  
That they were made your vengeance to supply:  
For not the wild destructive waste of War,  
Nor all the endless labyrinths of the Bar.  
Famine, Revenge, perpetual loss of Health,  
No, nor that grinning Fiend, Despair itself,  
When it insults with most tyrannic sway,  
Can plague or torture mankind more than they.  
But hold— don't let me blame the Powers Divine;  
Or at the wondrous Works they made, repine.  
All first was good, formed by th' eternal Will,  
Tho' some has since degenerated to ill:  
Even Woman was (they say) made chaste and good;  
But Ah! not long in that blessed State she stood:  
She fell, she fell, and sowed the poisonous Seeds  
Of Murder, Rapine, all inhuman Deeds;  
Which now so very firm have taken root,  
That Heaven in vain would strive to raze 'em out.   

But stop my Pen; for who can comprehend,  
Or trace those Crimes which ne'er can have an end?  
The Sun, The Moon, the Stars that gilled the Sky.  
The World, and all its glories too must die,  
And in one universal Ruin lie:  
But they even Immortality will gain,  
And live— but must for ever live in pain;  
For ever live, damned to eternal Night,  
And never more review the Sacred Light.  
Beware then, dull deluded Man, beware;  
And let not treacherous Woman be the Snare,  
To make you the Companions with 'em there:  
Scorn their vain Smiles, and all their Arts despise,  
And your Content at that just value prize,  
As not to let those ravenous Thiefs of Prey,  
Rifle, and bear the sacred Prize away:  
'Tis they, 'tis they that robs us of that Gem;  
How could we lose it were it not for them?  
Avoid 'em then, with all the gaudy Arts,  
Which they still practise to amuse our Hearts;  
Avoid 'em, as you would avoid their Crimes,  
Or the mad Follies that infest the Times;  
Avoid 'em, as you would the pains of Hell,  
For in them, as in that, Damnation dwells.   

But now, should some (for doubtless we may find  
Many a true bred Beast amongst Mankind)  
Should such contemn the wholesome Rules I give,  
And in contempt of what I've spoke, still live  
Like base-souled Slaves, still those vile Fetters wear,  
When they may be as unconfined as Air,  
Or the winged Race what does inhabit there;  
May all the Plagues that Woman can invent,  
Pursue 'em with eternal Punishment:  
May they— but stay, my Curses I forestall;  
For in one Curse I've comprehended all—  
But say Sir, if some Pilot on the Main,  
Should be so mad, so resolutely vain,  
To steer his Bark upon that fatal Shore,  
Where he has seen ten thousand wracked before,  
Tho' he should perish there; say, would you not  
Bestow a Curse on the Notorious Sot?  
Trust me, the Man's as frenzical as he,  
Who venturs his frail Bark out wilfully,  
On the Wild, Rocky, Matrimonial Sea;  
When round about, and just before his Eyes,  
Such a destructive waste of fatal Ruin lies.   
FINIS.