Classic Poem

You're now, E LIZA , fixed for life;
In other words, you're now — a wife;
And let me whisper in your ear,
A wife, though fixed, has cause to fear;
For much she risks, and much she loses,
If an improper road she chooses.
Yet think not that I mean to fright you,
My plan au contraire's to delight you;
To draw the lines where comfort reaches;
Where Folly flies; where Prudence teaches.
In short, E LIZA , to prevent you
From nameless ills that may torment you:
And ere bright Hymen's torch burns faintly,
From nuptial glare conduct you gently,
Where (cured of wounds from Cupid's quiver)
A milder lustre beams — for ever!

First, then, E LIZA , change your carriage,
Courtship's a different thing from marriage;
And much I fear (by passion blinded)
This change at first is seldom minded.
The miss who feasts on rich romances,
And love-sick sonnets, wisely fancies
That all the end of ardent wooing
Is constant billing, constant cooing.
The nymph again, whom caution teaches
To doubt the truth of rapturous speeches,
She whom experience oft has schooled,
And shewn how husbands may be — ruled;
Laughs at the whims of fond sixteen,
And thinks that wedlock stamps — a queen.
Now I (though ne'er, alas! contracted)
Consider both as half distracted;
And will predict, that endless strife
Must be the lot of either wife.
Not that I would infer from hence
That men of feeling, worth, or sense,
Could ever think to wound or pain
A tender breast with cold disdain;
Or e'er descend to storm and battle
At fondly-foolish female prattle.
Yet if fond madam, without reason,
Will fret and fume, and utter treason,
Plaguing her plain, unpuffing spouse,
About his former oaths and vows,
And tender sighs, and soft expressions,
With various comments and digressions;
I will not swear that mere connexion
Will guard the husband's warm affection;
And when affection cools, they say,
The husband's apt to — go astray.

Maids, praised and flattered all their lives,
Expect as much when they are wives;
And think, when husbands cease palavering,
That love (sweet souls!) is surely wavering:
Then hey! for pets and dark distrust,
Doubts, sullen brow, and dreams accurst.
The game goes on, ma'am's in the dumps,
And jealousy at last is trumps.
For thee, fair flower! of softest dye,
That caught so late each vagrant eye,
Still breathing sweets, still blooming gay,
Beauteous in Winter as in May; —
For thee this truth the Muse has penned,
The Muse — but more thy anxious friend:
" Woman's bright charms were given to lure us,
They catch , 'tis true; but can't secure us."

Sage Solomon, who paints with beauty
A virtuous woman's worth and duty,
Compares her to a ship of trade,
That brings from far her daily bread.
This may be true; but as for me,
I'll draw a plainer simile,
And call a virtuous wife a gem,
Which for its worth we ne'er contemn,
Though soon its water, size, and hue,
Grow quite familiar to the view.
What then ensues? Why, faith, I'll tell ye,
We think of nothing but — the value.
Yet, take this gem and lay it by
From the possessor's careless eye;
Conceal its lustre, dazzling bright,
From beaming hourly on his sight;
I'll take you any bet at pleasure,
Whene'er he views this tempting treasure,
With eager bliss and sparkling eyes
He'll mark each new-born charm arise,
And, with the joy of first possession,
Admire and rave sans intermission!

If women, therefore, would be wise,
Instead of murmurs, tears, and sighs,
And sullen moods, and scolding frays,
When lovie's absent for some days,
Let every female art conspire
To drive him from the parlour fire.
Of all the plagues in wedded life,
To tease or to torment a wife,
There's none more likely to increase
The bane of matrimonial peace,
Than the tame husband always by
With prying and suspicious eye.
Mark, then, when **** goes to town,
Smile thou, when other wives would frown;
He only goes (nay, don't be angry!)
To take a walk to make him hungry;
To taste awhile, unknown to care,
A change of exercise and air;
Observe the pert, the bold, the witty,
How diff'rent from his own sweet Betty !
Return impatient to his home,
No husband, but a fond bridegroom.

Lastly, E LIZA , let me say,
That wives should rather yield than sway;
To thwart a husband's fixed opinion
Is not the way to gain dominion,
For kisses order, tears reprove,
And teach us reverence, fear, and love! —
O! born to soothe and guide the heart
With native softness, void of art!
Thou, whom nor pride nor fashion sways,
Unchanged by flattery's giddy praise;
And thou, to whom a trem'lous youth
First spoke the tale of love and truth,
Blending with passion's fond alarms
The bright'ning beam of virtue's charms —
Ah! lend not now a careless ear! —
Yet, yet attend to truth sincere!
These lines at least with smiles receive,
The last, perhaps, thy Bard shall give.
While pleasure spreads her gawdy train,
To lure the trifling and the vain;
While fashion kills the tedious day
With shopping, concert, routs, and play;
While female love and youth's fair charms
Shrink from pure passion's ardent arms,
And cling to splendor's fancied bliss,
With withering age and wretchedness,
Be thine, E LIZA , more refined,
The pleasures of the virtuous mind!
Be thine the transports of the heart,
Which love and goodness still impart;
The tender glance, the tranquil smile,
A husband's sorrows to beguile;
The blush of joy, divinely meek,
That paints a mother's glowing cheek;
The balm that friendship still bestows;
The tear that drops for human woes!
These, these, E LIZA , light the way,
And cheer when other charms decay;
Conduct through care and worldly gloom,
And whisper joys — beyond the tomb.