Part 2

Well, Sir, 'tis granted, I said _Dryden_'s Rhimes Were stoll'n, unequal, nay, dull many Times: What foolish Patron is there found of his So blindly partial to deny me this? But that his Plays embroider'd up and down } With Wit and Learning, justly please the Town, } In the same Paper I as freely own. } Yet having this allow'd, the heavy Mass That stuffs up his loose Volumes, must not pass: For by that Rule, I might as well admit _Crown_'s tedious Sense for Poetry and Wit. 'Tis therefore not enough, when your false Sense Hits the false Judgment of an Audience Of clapping Fools assembling, a vast Crowd, Till the throng'd Play-House crack with the dull Load; Tho' ev'n that Talent merits, in some sort, That can divert the Rabble and the Court; Which blund'ring _Settle_ never could attain, And puzz'ling _Otway_ labours at in vain: But within due Proportion circumscribe Whate'er you write, that with a flowing Tide The Stile may rise, yet in its Rise forbear With useless Words t'oppress the weary'd Ear. Here be your Language lofty, there more light, Your Rhet'rick with your Poetry unite: For Elegance sake, sometimes allay the Force Of Epithets, 'twill soften the Discourse A Jest in Scorn points out, and hits the Thing More home, than the morosest Satyr's Sting. _Shakespear_ and _Johnson_ did in this excel, And might herein be imitated well; Whom refin'd _Etherege_ copies not at all, But is himself a meer Original; Nor that slow Drudge in swift Pindarick Strains, } _Flatman_, who _Cowley_ imitates with Pains, } And rides a jaded Muse, whipt, with loose Reins. } When _Lee_ makes temp'rate _Scipio_ fret and rave, And _Hannibal_ a whining am'rous Slave, I laugh, and wish the hot-brain'd Fustian Fool In _Busby_'s Hands, to be well lash'd at School. Of all our modern Wits, none seem to me } Once to have touch'd upon true _Comedy_, } But hasty _Shadwell_, and slow _Wycherley_. } _Shadwell_'s unfinish'd Works do yet impart Great Proofs of Force of Nature, none of Art; With just bold Stokes he dashes here and there, Shewing great Mastery with little Care; Scorning to varnish his good Touches o'er, To make the Fools and Women praise him more: But _Wycherley_ earns hard whate'er he gains; He wants no Judgment, and he spares no Pains: He frequently excells, and at the least, Makes fewer Faults than any of the rest. _Waller_, by Nature for the Bays design'd, } With Force, and Fire, and Fancy, unconfin'd, } In Panegyrick do's excel Mankind: } He best can turn, enforce, and soften things, To praise great Conquerors, and flatter Kings. For pointed Satyr I would _Buckhurst_ choose, The best Good Man with the worst-natur'd Muse. For Songs and Verses mannerly obscene, } That can stir Nature up by Springs unseen, } And, without forcing Blushes, warm the Queen; } _Sedley_ has that prevailing, gentle Art, } That can with a resistless Pow'r impart } The loosest Wishes to the chastest Heart; } Raise such a Conflict, kindle such a Fire Betwixt declining Virtue and Desire, Till the poor vanquish'd Maid dissolves away In Dreams all Night, in Sighs and Tears all Day. _Dryden_ in vain try'd this nice Way of Wit, For he to be a tearing Blade thought fit; But when he would be sharp, he still was blunt, To frisk and frolick Fancy he'd cry ---- Wou'd give the Ladies a dry bawdy Bob; And thus he got the Name of Poet Squab: But to be just, 'twill to his Praise be found, His Excellences more than Faults abound; Nor dare I from his sacred Temples tear The Laurel, which he best deserves to wear; But do's not _Dryden_ find ev'n _Johnson_ dull? _Beaumont_ and _Fletcher_ incorrect and full Of _Lewd Lines_, as he calls 'em? _Shakespear_'s Stile Stiff and affected? To his own the while, Allowing all the Justice that his Pride So arrogantly had to these deny'd? And may not I have Leave impartially To search and censure _Dryden_'s Works, and try If those gross Faults his choice Pen doth commit, Proceed from Want of Judgment, or of Wit? Or if his lumpish Fancy do's refuse Spirit and Grace to his loose slattern Muse? Five Hundred Verses ev'ry Morning writ Prove him no more a Poet than a Wit: Such scribb'ling Authors have been seen before, } _Mustapha_, the _Island Princess_, Forty more, } Were things, perhaps, compos'd in Half an Hour. } To write, what may securely stand the Test Of being well read over, thrice at least; Compare each Phrase, examine ev'ry Line, Weigh ev'ry Word, and ev'ry Thought refine; Scorn all Applause the vile Rout can bestow, And be content to please those few who know. Canst thou be such a vain mistaken Thing, To wish thy Works might make a Play-house ring With the unthinking Laughter and poor Praise Of Fops and Ladies factious for thy Plays? Then send a cunning Friend to learn thy Doom From the shrewd Judges in the Drawing Room. I've no Ambition on that idle Score, } But say with _Betty Morris_ heretofore, } When a Court Lady call'd her _Buckhurst_'s Whore: } I please one Man of Wit, am proud on't too, Let all the Coxcombs dance to Bed to you. Should I be troubled when the purblind Knight, } Who squints more in his Judgment, than his Sight, } Picks silly Faults, and censures what I write? } Or when the poor-fed Poets of the Town, For Scraps and Coach-room cry my Verses down? I loath the Rabble; 'tis enough for me; If _Sedley_, _Shadwell_, _Sheppard_, _Wycherley_, _Godolphin_, _Butler_, _Buckhurst_, _Buckingham_, } And some few more, whom I omit to name, } Approve my Sense, I count their Censure Fame. }

A SATIRE AGAINST MARRIAGE.

Husband, thou dull unpitied Miscreant, Wedded to Noise, to Misery and Want: Sold an eternal Vassal for thy Life, Oblig'd to cherish, and to hate thy Wife: Drudge on till Fifty at thy own Expence, Breathe out thy Life in one Impertinence: Repeat thy loath'd Embraces every Night, Prompted to act by Duty, not Delight: Christen thy froward Bantling once a Year, And carefully thy spurious Issue rear: Go once a Week to see the Brat at Nurse, And let the young Impostor drain thy Purse: Hedge-Sparrow-like, what Cuckows have begot, Do thou maintain, incorrigible Sot. O! I could curse the Pimp, (who could do less?) He's beneath Pity, and beyond Redress. Pox on him, let him go, what can I say? _Anathema_'s on him are thrown away: The Wretch is marry'd and hath known the worst; And his great Blessing is, he can't be curst. _Marriage!_ O Hell and Furies! name it not; Hence, ye holy Cheats, a Plot, a Plot! _Marriage!_ 'Tis but a licens'd Way to sin; A Noose to catch religious Woodcocks in: Or the Nick-Name of Love's malicious Fiend, Begot in Hell to persecute Mankind: 'Tis the Destroyer of our Peace and Health, Mispender of our Time, our Strength and Wealth; The Enemy of Valour, Wit, Mirth, all That we can virtuous, good, or pleasant call: By Day 'tis nothing but an endless Noise, By Night the Eccho of forgotten Joys: Abroad the Sport and Wonder of the Crowd, At Home the hourly Breach of what they vow'd: In Youth it's _Opium_ to our lustful Rage, Which sleeps awhile, but wakes again in Age: It heaps on all Men much, but useless Care; For with more Trouble they less happy are. Ye Gods! that Man, by his own Slavish Law, Should on himself such Inconvenience draw. If he would wiser Nature's Laws obey, Those chalk him out a far more pleasant Way, When lusty Youth and fragrant Wine conspire To fan the Blood into a gen'rous Fire. We must not think the Gallant will endure The puissant Issue of his Calenture, Nor always in his single Pleasures burn, Tho' Nature's Handmaid sometimes serves the Turn: No: He must have a sprightly, youthful Wench, In equal Floods of Love his Flames to quench: One that will hold him in her clasping Arms, And in that Circle all his Spirits charms; That with new Motion and unpractis'd Art, Can raise his Soul, and reinsnare his Heart. Hence spring the Noble, Fortunate, and Great, Always begot in Passion and in Heat: But the dull Offspring of the Marriage-Bed, What is it! but a human Piece of Lead; A sottish Lump ingender'd of all Ills; Begot like Cats against their Fathers Wills. If it be bastardis'd, 'tis doubly spoil'd, The Mother's Fear's entail'd upon the Child. Thus whether illegitimate, or not, Cowards and Fools in Wedlock are begot. Let no enabled Soul himself debase By lawful Means to bastardise his Race; But if he must pay Nature's Debt in Kind, To check his eager Passion, let him find Some willing Female out, who, tho' she be The very Dregs and Scum of Infamy: Tho' she be Linsey-Woolsey, Bawd, and Whore, Close-stool to _Venus_, Nature's Common-Shore, Impudent, Foolish, Bawdy, and Disease, The Sunday Crack of Suburb-Prentices; What then! She's better than a Wife by half; And if thour't still unmarried, thou art safe. With Whores thou canst but venture; what thou'st lost, May be redeem'd again with Care and Cost; But a damn'd Wife, by inevitable Fate, Destroys Soul, Body, Credit, and Estate.

A LETTER FROM _Artemisa_ in the Town, TO _CLOE_ in the Country.

_Cloe_, by your Command, in Verse I write: Shortly you'll bid me ride astride, and fight: Such Talents better with our Sex agree, Than lofty Flights of dangerous Poetry. Among the Men, I mean the Men of Wit, (At least, they past for such before they writ) How many bold Advent'rers for the Bays, Proudly designing large Returns of Praise; Who durst that stormy, pathless World explore, } Were soon dash'd back, and wreck'd on the dull Shore, } Broke of that little Stock they had before. } How wou'd a Woman's tott'ring Bark be tost, Where stoutest Ships, (the Men of Wit) are lost? When I reflect on this, I streight grow wise, And my own self I gravely thus advise.

Dear _Artemisa_! Poetry's a Snare: _Bedlam_ has many Mansions; have a Care: Your Muse diverts you, makes the Reader sad: You think your self inspir'd, he thinks you mad: Consider too, 'twill be discreetly done, To make your self the Fiddle of the Town: To find th' ill-humour'd Pleasure at their Need; Curst when you fail, and scorn'd when you succeed. Thus, like an arrant Woman, as I am, } No sooner well convinc'd Writing's a Shame, } That _Whore_ is scarce a more reproachful Name } Than Poetess-- Like Men that marry, or like Maids that woo, because 'tis th' very worst thing they can do: Pleas'd with the Contradiction, and the Sin, Methinks I stand on Thorns till I begin.

Y'expect to hear, at least, what Love has past In this lewd Town, since you and I saw last; What Change has happen'd of Intrigues, and whether The old ones last, and who and who's together. But how, my dearest _Cloe_, shou'd I set My Pen to write, what I wou'd fain forget? Or name that lost thing Love without a Tear, Since so debauch'd by ill-bred Customs here? Love, the most gen'rous Passion of the Mind; The softest Refuge Innocence can find; The safe Director of unguided Youth; Fraught with kind Wishes, and secur'd by Truth: That Cordial-drop Heav'n in our Cup has thrown, To make the nauseous Draught of Life go down: On which one only Blessing God might raise, In Lands of Atheists, Subsidies of Praise: For none did e'er so dull and stupid prove, But felt a God, and bless'd his Pow'r in Love: This only Joy, for which poor we are made, Is grown, like Play, to be an arrant Trade: The Rooks creep in, and it has got of late, As many little Cheats and Tricks as that. But, what yet more a Woman's Heart wou'd vex, 'Tis chiefly carry'd on by our own Sex. Our silly Sex, who, born like Monarchs, free, } Turn Gypsies for a meaner Liberty; } And hate Restraint, tho' but from Infamy: } They call whatever is not common nice, } And, deaf to Nature's Rule, or Love's Advice, } Forsake the Pleasure to pursue the Vice. } To an exact Perfection they have brought The Action Love; the Passion is forgot. 'Tis below Wit, they tell you, to admire; And ev'n without approving, they desire. Their private Wish obeys the publick Voice, 'Twixt Good and Bad, Whimsey decides, not Choice. Fashions grow up for Taste, at Forms they strike; They know not what they wou'd have, nor what they like. _Bovy_'s a Beauty, if some few agree } To call him so, the rest to that Degree } Affected are, that with their Ears they see. }

Where I was visiting the other Night, Comes a fine Lady with her humble Knight, Who had prevail'd with her, thro' her own Skill, As his Request, tho' much against his Will, To come to _London_-- As the Coach stopt, I heard her Voice, more loud Than a great bellied Woman's in a Crowd; Telling the Knight that her Affairs require He, for some Hours, obsequiously retire. I think she was asham'd he shou'd be seen, } Hard Fate of Husbands! the Gallant has been, } Tho' a diseas'd, ill-favour'd Fool, brought in. } Dispatch, says she, the Business you pretend, Your beastly Visit to your drunken Friend. A Bottle ever makes you look so fine; Methinks I long to smell you stink of Wine. Your Country-drinking Breath's enough to kill: Sour Ale corrected with a Lemon-Pill. Prithee, farewel: We'll meet again anon. The necessary Thing bows, and is gone. She flies up Stairs, and all the Haste does show That fifty antick Postures will allow, And then burst out--Dear Madam, am not I The strangest, alter'd Creature: Let me die I find my self ridiculously grown, Embarrast with my being out of Town Rude and untaught like any _Indian_ Queen; My Country Nakedness is plainly seen. How is Love govern'd? Love that rules the State; And pray who are the Men most worn of late? When I was marry'd, Fools were a-la-mode; The Men of Wit were held then incommode. Slow of Belief, and fickle in Desire, } Who, e'er they'll be persuaded, must enquire; } As if they came to spy, and not to admire. } With searching Wisdom, fatal to their Ease, They still find out why, what may, shou'd not please: Nay, take themselves for injur'd, when we dare Make 'em think better of us than we are: And, if we hide our Frailties from their Sights, Call us deceitful Jilts, and Hypocrites: They little guess, who at our Arts are griev'd, The perfect Joy of being well deceiv'd. Inquisitive, as jealous Cuckolds, grow; } Rather than not be knowing, they will know, } What being known, creates their certain Woe. } Women should these, of all Mankind, avoid; For Wonder, by clear Knowledge, is destroy'd. Woman, who is an arrant Bird of Night, } Bold in the dusk, before a Fool's dull sight, } Must fly, when Reason brings the glaring Light. } But the kind easie Fool, apt to admire } Himself, trusts us, his Follies all conspire } To flatter his, and favour our Desire. } Vain of his proper Merit, he, with ease, Believes we love him best, who best can please: On him our gross, dull, common Flatteries pass; Ever most happy when most made an Ass: Heavy to apprehend; tho' all Mankind } Perceive us false, the Fop, himself, is blind. } Who, doating on himself,-- } Thinks every one that sees him of his Mind. } These are true Womens Men--here, forc'd to cease Thro' want of Breath, not will, to hold her Peace; She to the Window runs, where she had spy'd Her much-esteem'd, dear Friend, the Monkey ty'd: With forty Smiles, as many antick Bows, As if't had been the Lady of the House The dirty, chatt'ring Monster she embrac'd; And made it this fine tender Speech at last.

Kiss me, thou curious Miniature of Man; How odd thou art, how pretty, how japan: Oh! I could live and die with thee: Then on, For half an Hour, in Complements she ran. I took this Time to think what Nature meant, } When this mixt Thing into the World she sent, } So very wise, yet so impertinent. } One that knows ev'ry Thing that God thought fit Shou'd be an Ass thro' Choice, not want of Wit. Whose Foppery, without the help of Sense, Cou'd ne'er have rose to such an Excellence. Nature's as lame in making a true Fop As a Philosopher, the very Top And Dignity of Folly we attain By studious Search, and Labour of the Brain: By Observation, Counsel, and deep Thought: God never made a Coxcomb worth a Groat. We owe that Name to Industry and Arts; An eminent Fool must be a Fool of Parts. And such a one was she; who had turn'd o'er As many Books as Men; lov'd much, read more: Had discerning Wit; to her was known Every one's Fault, or Merit, but her own. All the good Qualities that ever blest } A Woman so distinguish'd from the rest, } Except Discretion only, she possest. } But now _Mon Cher_, dear Pug, she crys, adieu, And the Discourse broke off, does thus renew: You smile to see me, who the World perchance, Mistakes to have some Wit, so far advance The Interest of Fools, that I approve Their Merit more than Men of Wit in Love. But in our Sex too many Proofs there are Of such whom Wits undo and Fools repair. This, in my Time, was so observ'd a Rule, Hardly a Wench in Town but had her Fool. The meanest, common Slut, who long was grown The Jest and Scorn of ev'ry Pit-Buffoon; Had yet left Charms enough to have subdu'd Some Fop or other; fond to be thought lewd. _Foster_ could make an _Irish_ Lord a _Nokes_; And _Betty Morris_ had her City Cokes. A Woman's ne'er so ruin'd but she can Be still reveng'd on her Undoer, Man: How lost soe'er, she'll find some Lover more, A more abandon'd Fool than she a Whore. That wretched Thing _Corinna_, who has run Thro' all th' several Ways of being undone: Cozen'd at first by Love, and living then By turning the too dear-bought Cheat on Men: Gay were the Hours, and wing'd with Joy they flew, When first the Town her early Beauties knew: Courted, admir'd, and lov'd, with Presents fed; Youth in her Looks, and Pleasure in her Bed: 'Till Fate, or her ill Angel, thought it fit To make her doat upon a Man of Wit: Who found 'twas dull to love above a Day; Made his ill-natur'd Jest, and went away. Now scorn'd of all, forsaken and oppress'd, She's a _Memento Mori_ to the rest: Diseas'd, decay'd, to take up half a Crown Must mortgage her long Scarf, and Manto Gown; Poor Creature, who unheard of, as a Fly, In some dark Hole must all the Winter lie: And Want and Dirt endure a whole half Year, That for one Month she tawdry may appear. In _Easter_ Term she gets her a new Gown; When my young Master's Worship comes to Town: From Pedagogue and Mother just set free; The Heir and Hopes of a great Family: Who with strong Beer and Beef the Country rules; And ever since the Conquest have been Fools: And now with careful Prospect to maintain This Character, lest crossing of the Strain Shou'd mend the Booby-breed; his Friends provide A Cousin of his own to be his Bride: And thus set out-- With an Estate, no Wit, and a young Wife: The sole Comforts of a Coxcomb's Life: Dunghil and Pease forsook, he comes to Town, Turns Spark, learns to be lewd, and is undone: Nothing suits worse with Vice than want of Sense: Fools are still wicked at their own Expence. This o'er-grown School-Boy lost _Corinna_ wins; At the first dash to make an Ass begins: Pretends to like a Man that has not known The Vanities or Vices of the Town: Fresh in his Youth, and faithful in his Love, Eager of Joys which he does seldom prove: Healthful and strong, he does no Pains endure, But what the Fair One he adores can cure. Grateful for Favours does the Sex esteem, And libels none for being kind to him. Then of the Lewdness of the Town complains, Rails at the Wits and Atheists, and maintains 'Tis better than good Sense, than Pow'r or Wealth, To have a Blood untainted, Youth and Health. The unbred Puppy who had never seen A Creature look so gay, or talk so fine; Believes, then falls in Love, and then in Debt: Mortgages all, ev'n to the ancient Seat, To buy his Mistress a new House for Life: To give her Plate and Jewels robs his Wife. And when to th' Heighth of Fondness he is grown, 'Tis Time to poison him, and all's her own. Thus meeting in her common Arms his Fate, He leaves her Bastard-Heir to his Estate: And as the Race of such an Owl deserves, His own dull lawful Progeny he starves. Nature (that never made a Thing in vain, But does each Insect to some End ordain) Wisely provokes kind-keeping Fools, no doubt, To patch up Vices Men of Wit wear out.

Thus she ran on two Hours, some Grains of Sense Still mixt with Follies of Impertinence. But now 'tis Time I shou'd some Pity show } To _Cloe_, since I cannot chuse but know, } Readers must reap what dullest Writers sow. } By the next Post I will such Stories tell, As, join'd to these, shall to a Volume swell; As true as Heaven, more infamous than Hell: But you are tir'd, and so am I.

_Farewel._

An EPISTOLARY ESSAY From _M.G._ to _O.B._ Upon their mutual POEMS.

Dear Friend,