Classic Poem

Chloe, in Verse by your commande I write;
Shortly you'l bid mee ride astride, and fight.
These Talents better with our sexe agree,
Then lofty flights of dang'rous poetry.
Amongst the Men (I meane) the Men of Witt
(At least they passt for such, before they writt)
How many bold Advent'rers for the Bayes,
(Proudly designing large returnes of prayse)
Who durst that stormy pathlesse World explore,
Were soone dash't backe, and wreck't on the dull shore,
Broke of that little stocke, they had before?
How would a Womans tott'ring Barke be tost,
Where stoutest Ships (the Men of Witt) are lost?
When I reflect on this, I straight grow wise,
And my owne selfe thus gravely I advise.
Deare Artemiza, poetry's a snare:
Bedlam has many Mansions: have a Care.
Your Muse diverts you, makes the Reader sad;
You Fancy, you'r inspir'd, he thinkes, you mad.
Consider too, 'twill be discreetly done,
To make your Selfe the Fiddle of the Towne,
To fynd th'ill-humour'd pleasure att their need,
Curst, if you fayle, and scorn'd, though you succeede.
Thus, like an Arrant Woman, as I am,
Noe sooner well convinc'd, writing's a shame,
That Whore is scarce a more reproachfull name,
Then Poetesse:
Like Men, that marry, or like Maydes, that woe,
'Cause 'tis the very worst thing they can doe,
Pleas'd with the Contradiction, and the Sin,
Mee-thinkes, I stand on Thornes, till I begin.
Y'expect att least, to heare, what Loves have past
In this Lewd Towne, synce you, and I mett last.
What change has happen'd of Intrigues, and whether
The Old ones last, and who, and who's togeather.
But how, my dearest Chloe, shall I sett
My pen to write, what I would faine forgett,
Or name that lost thing (Love) without a teare
Synce soe debauch'd by ill-bred Customes here?
Love, the most gen'rous passion of the mynde,
The softest refuge Innocence can fynde,
The safe directour of unguided youth,
Fraught with kind wishes, and secur'd by Trueth,
That Cordiall dropp Heav'n in our Cup has throwne,
To make the nauseous draught of life goe downe,
On which one onely blessing God might rayse
In lands of Atheists Subsidyes of prayse
(For none did e're soe dull, and stupid prove,
But felt a God, and blest his pow'r in Love)
This onely Joy, for which poore Wee were made,
Is growne like play, to be an Arrant Trade;
The Rookes creepe in, and it has gott of late
As many little Cheates, and Trickes, as that.
But what yet more a Womans heart would vexe,
'Tis cheifely carry'd on by our owne Sexe,
Our silly Sexe, who borne, like Monarchs, free,
Turne Gipsyes for a meaner Liberty,
And hate restraint, though but from Infamy.
They call whatever is not Common, nice,
And deafe to Natures rule, or Loves advice,
Forsake the pleasure, to pursue the Vice.
To an exact perfection they have wrought
The Action Love, the Passion is forgott.
'Tis below witt, they tell you, to admire,
And e'ne without approving they desire.
Their private wish obeys the publicke Voyce,
'Twixt good, and bad Whimsey decides, not Choyce.
Fashions grow up for tast, att Formes they strike:
They know, what they would have, not what they like.
Bovey's a beauty, if some few agree,
To call him soe, the rest to that degree
Affected are, that with their Eares they see.
Where I was visiting the other night,
Comes a fine Lady with her humble Knight,
Who had prevayl'd on her, through her owne skill,
At his request, though much against his will,
To come to London.
As the Coach stop't, wee heard her Voyce more loud,
Then a great belly'd Womans in a Crowd,
Telling the Knight, that her affayres require,
Hee for some houres obsequiously retire.
I thinke, shee was asham'd, to have him seene
(Hard fate of Husbands) the Gallant had beene,
Though a diseas'd ill-favour'd Foole, brought in.
Dispatch, sayes shee, that bus'nesse you pretend,
Your beastly visitt to your drunken freind;
A Bottle ever makes you looke soe fine!
Mee-thinkes I long, to smell you stinke of Wine.
Your Countrey-drinking-breath's enough, to kill
Sowre Ale corrected with a Lemmon pill.
Prithy farewell — wee'le meete againe anon;
The necessary thing bows, and is gone,
She flyes up stayres, and all the hast does show,
That fifty Antique postures will allow,
And then bursts out — Deare Madam, am not I
The alter'dst Creature breathing? Let me dye,
I fynde my selfe ridiculously growne
Embarasse with being out of Towne,
Rude, and untaught, like any Indian Queene;
My Countrey nakednesse is strangely seene.
How is Love govern'd? Love, that rules the State,
And, pray, who are the Men most worne of late?
When I was marry'd, Fooles were a la mode,
The Men of Witt were then held incommode,
Slow of beleife, and fickle in desire,
Who e're they'l be persuaded, must inquire,
As if they came to spye, not to admire.
With searching Wisedome fatall to their ease
They still fynde out, why, what may, should not please;
Nay take themselves for injur'd, when Wee dare,
Make 'em thinke better of us, then Wee are:
And if Wee hide our frailtyes from their sights,
Call Us deceitefull Gilts, and Hypocrites.
They little guesse, who att Our Arts are greiv'd,
The perfect Joy of being well deceaved.
Inquisitive, as jealous Cuckolds, grow,
Rather, then not bee knowing, they will know,
What being knowne creates their certaine woe.
Women should these of all Mankind avoyd;
For Wonder by cleare knowledge is destroy'd.
Woman, who is an Arrant Bird of night,
Bold in the Duske, before a Fooles dull sight,
Should flye, when Reason brings the glaring light:
But the kinde easy Foole apt, to admire
Himselfe, trusts us, his Follyes all conspire,
To flatter his, and favour Our desire.
Vaine of his proper Meritt he with ease
Beleaves, wee love him best, who best can please.
On him Our grosse dull common Flatt'ries passe,
Ever most Joyfull, when most made an Asse.
Heavy, to apprehend, though all Mankinde
Perceave Us false, the Fopp concern'd is blinde,
Who doating on himselfe,
Thinkes ev'ry one, that sees him, of his mynde.

These are true Womens Men. — Here forc'd, to cease
Through Want of Breath, not Will, to hold her peace,
Shee to the Window runns, where she had spy'de
Her much esteem'd deare Freind the Monkey ti'de.
With fourty smiles, as many Antique bows,
As if't had beene the Lady of the House,
The dirty chatt'ring Monster she embrac't,
And made it this fine tender speech att last
Kisse mee, thou curious Miniature of Man;
How odde thou art? How pritty? How Japan?
Oh I could live, and dye with thee — then on
For halfe an houre in Complement shee runne.
I tooke this tyme, to thinke, what Nature meant,
When this mixt thinge into the World shee sent,
Soe very wise, yet soe impertinent.
One, who knew ev'ry thinge, who, God thought fitt,
Should bee an Asse through choyce, not want of Witt:
Whose Foppery, without the helpe of Sense,
Could ne're have rose to such an Excellence.
Nature's as lame, in making a true Fopp,
As a Philosopher; the very topp,
And Dignity of Folly wee attaine
By studious Search, and labour of the Braine,
By observation, Councell, and deepe thought:
God never made a Coxecombe worth a groate.
Wee owe that name to Industry, and Arts:
An Eminent Foole must bee a Foole of parts;
And such a one was shee, who had turn'd o're
As many Bookes, as Men, lov'd much, reade more,
Had a discerning Witt; to her was knowne
Ev'ry ones fault, and meritt, but her owne.
All the good qualityes, that ever blest
A Woman, soe distinguisht from the rest,
Except discretion onely, she possest.
But now, mon cher, deare Pugge, she cryes, adiew,
And the Discourse broke off does thus renew.

You smile, to see mee, whom the World perchance
Mistakes, to have some Witt, soe far advance
The Interest of Fooles, that I approve
Their Meritt more, then Mens of Witt, in Love.
But in Our Sexe too many proofes there are
Of such, whom Witts undoe, and Fooles repayre.
This in my tyme was soe observ'd a Rule,
Hardly a Wench in Towne, but had her Foole.
The meanest Common Slutt, who long was growne
The Jest, and Scorne of ev'ry Pitt-Buffoone,
Had yet left Charmes enough, to have subdu'd
Some Fopp, or other fond, to be thought lewd.
Foster could make an Irish Lord a Nokes,
And Betty Morris had her Citty-Cokes.
A Woman's ne're soe ruyn'd, but she can
Be still reveng'd on her undoer Man.
How lost so e're, shee'l fynde some Lover more
A lewde abandon'd Foole, then shee a whore.
That wretched thinge Corinna, who had run
Through all the severall Wayes of being undone,
Couzen'd att first by Love, and living then
By turning the too-deare-bought trick on Men:
Gay were the houres, and wing'd with Joyes they flew,
When first the Towne her early Beautyes knew,
Courted, admir'd, and lov'd, with presents fedd,
Youth in her lookes, and pleasure in her bed,
Till Fate, or her ill Angell thought it fitt,
To make her doate upon a Man of Witt,
Who found, 'twas dull, to love above a day,
Made his ill-natur'd Jest, and went away.
Now scorn'd by all, forsaken, and opprest,
Shee's a Memento Mori to the rest.
Diseas'd, decay'd, to take up halfe a Crowne,
Must morgage her long Scarfe, and Mantua Gowne.
Poore Creature! Who unheard off, as a Flye,
In some darke hole must all the Winter lye,
And Want, and dirt endure a whole halfe yeare,
That for one Moneth shee tawdry may appeare.
In Easter Terme she getts her a new Gowne,
When my young Masters Worship comes to Towne,
From Pedagogue, and Mother just sett free,
The Heyre, and Hopes of a great Family,
Which with strong Ale, and Beefe the Countrey Rules,
And ever synce the Conquest have been Fooles:
And now with carefull prospect to mainteyne
This Character, least crossing of the Strayne
Should mend the Booby-breede, his Freinds provide
A Cousin of his owne, to bee his Bride;
And thus sett out —
With an Estate, noe Witt, and a younge Wife
(The solid comforts of a Coxecombes life)
Dunghill, and Pease forsooke, he comes to Towne,
Turnes Sparke, learnes to be lewd, and is undone.
Nothing suites worse with Vice, then want of Sense,
Fooles are still wicked att their owne Expence.
This o'regrowne Schooleboy lost-Corinna wins,
And att first dash, to make an Asse, begins:
Pretends, to like a Man, who has not knowne
The Vanityes, nor Vices of the Towne,
Fresh in his youth, and faithfull in his Love,
Eager of Joyes, which he does seldome prove,
Healthfull, and strong, he does noe paynes endure,
But what the Fayre One, he adores, can cure.
Gratefull for favours does the Sexe esteeme,
And libells none, for being kind to him.
Then of the Lewdnesse of the tymes complaines,
Rayles att the Witts, and Atheists, and mainteynes,
'Tis better, then good Sense, then pow'r, or Wealth,
To have a love untainted, youth, and health.
The unbred puppy, who had never seene
A Creature looke soe gay, or talke soe fine,
Beleaves, then falls in Love, and then in Debt,
Morgages all, e'ne to th' Auncient Seate,
To buy this Mistresse a new house for life;
To give her Plate, and Jewells, robbs his wife;
And when to the height of fondnesse he is growne,
'Tis tyme, to poyson him, and all's her owne.
Thus meeting in her Common Armes his Fate,
Hee leaves her Bastard Heyre to his Estate;
And as the Race of such an Owle deserves,
His owne dull lawfull progeny he starves.
Nature, who never made a thinge in vayne,
But does each Insect to some ende ordeyne,
Wisely contriv'd kind-keeping Fooles, noe doubt,
To patch up Vices, Men of Witt weare out.
Thus she ranne on two howres, some graynes of Sense
Still mixt with Volleys of Impertinence.
But now 'tis tyme, I should some pitty show
To Chloe, synce I cannot choose, but know,
Readers must reape the dullnesse, writers sow.
By the next Post such storyes I will tell,
As joyn'd with these shall to a Volume swell,
As true, as Heaven, more infamous, then Hell;
But you are tyr'd, and soe am I. Farewell.