Behold the woes of matrimonial life,And hear with reverence an experienced wife!To dear-bought wisdom give the credit due,And think, for once, a woman tells you true.In all these trials I have borne a part:I was myself the scourge that caused the smart;For, since fifteen, in triumph have I ledFive captive husbands from the church to bed.Christ saw a wedding once, the Scripture says,And saw but one, 'tis thought, in all his days; 10Whence some infer, whose conscience is too nice,No pious Christian ought to marry twice.But let them read, and solve me if they can,The words address'd to the Samaritan;Five times in lawful wedlock she was join'd,And sure the certain stint was ne'er defined.'Increase and multiply' was Heaven's command,And that's a text I clearly understand:This, too, 'Let men their sires and mothers leave,And to their dearer wives for ever cleave.' 20More wives than one by Solomon were tried,Or else the wisest of mankind's belied.I've had myself full many a merry fit,And trust in heaven I may have many yet;For when my transitory spouse, unkind,Shall die and leave his woful wife behind,I'll take the next good Christian I can find.Paul, knowing one could never serve our turn,Declared 'twas better far to wed than burn.There's danger in assembling fire and tow; 30I grant 'em that; and what it means you know.The same apostle, too, has elsewhere own'dNo precept for virginity he found:'Tis but a counsel—and we women stillTake which we like, the counsel or our will.I envy not their bliss, if he or sheThink fit to live in perfect chastity:Pure let them be, and free from taint or vice;I for a few slight spots am not so nice.Heaven calls us different ways; on these bestows 40One proper gift, another grants to those;Not every man's obliged to sell his store,And give up all his substance to the poor:Such as are perfect may, I can't deny;But, by your leaves, divines! so am not I.Full many a saint, since first the world began,Lived an unspotted maid in spite of man:Let such (a God's name) with fine wheat be fed,And let us honest wives eat barley bread.For me, I'll keep the post assign'd by heaven, 50And use the copious talent it has given:Let my good spouse pay tribute, do me right,And keep an equal reckoning every night;His proper body is not his, but mine;For so said Paul, and Paul's a sound divine.Know then, of those five husbands I have had,Three were just tolerable, two were bad.The three were old, but rich and fond beside,And toil'd most piteously to please their bride;But since their wealth (the best they had) was mine, 60The rest, without much loss, I could resign:Sure to be loved, I took no pains to please,Yet had more pleasure far than they had ease.Presents flow'd in apace: with showers of goldThey made their court, like Jupiter of old:If I but smiled, a sudden youth they found,And a new palsy seized them when I frown'd.Ye sovereign wives! give ear, and understand:Thus shall ye speak, and exercise command;For never was it given to mortal man 70To lie so boldly as we women can:Forswear the fact, though seen with both his eyes,And call your maids to witness how he lies.Hark, old Sir Paul! ('twas thus I used to say)Whence is our neighbour's wife so rich and gayTreated, caress'd, where'er she's pleased to roam—I sit in tatters, and immured at home.Why to her house dost thou so oft repair?Art thou so amorous? and is she so fair?If I but see a cousin or a friend, 80Lord! how you swell and rage, like any fiend!But you reel home, a drunken beastly bear,Then preach till midnight in your easy chair;Cry, Wives are false, and every woman evil,And give up all that's female to the devil.If poor (you say), she drains her husband's purse;If rich, she keeps her priest, or something worse;If highly born, intolerably vain,Vapours and pride by turns possess her brain;Now gaily mad, now sourly splenetic, 90Freakish when well, and fretful when she's sick:If fair, then chaste she cannot long abide,By pressing youth attack'd on every side;If foul, her wealth the lusty lover lures,Or else her wit some fool-gallant procures,Or else she dances with becoming grace,Or shape excuses the defects of face.There swims no goose so gray, but soon or lateShe finds some honest gander for her mate.Horses (thou say'st) and asses men may try, 100And ring suspected vessels ere they buy;But wives, a random choice, untried they take,They dream in courtship, but in wedlock wake;Then, nor till then, the veil's removed away,And all the woman glares in open day.You tell me, to preserve your wife's good grace,Your eyes must always languish on my face,Your tongue with constant flatteries feed my ear,And tag each sentence with 'My life! My dear!'If, by strange chance, a modest blush be raised, 110Be sure my fine complexion must be praised.My garments always must be new and gay,And feasts still kept upon my wedding day.Then must my nurse be pleased, and favourite maid:And endless treats and endless visits paidTo a long train of kindred, friends, allies:All this thou say'st, and all thou say'st are lies.On Jenkin, too, you cast a squinting eye:What! can your 'prentice raise your jealousy?Fresh are his ruddy cheeks, his forehead fair, 120And like the burnish'd gold his curling hair.But clear thy wrinkled brow, and quit thy sorrow,I'd scorn your 'prentice should you die to-morrow.Why are thy chests all lock'd? on what design?Are not thy worldly goods and treasures mine?Sir, I'm no fool; nor shall you, by St John,Have goods and body to yourself alone.One you shall quit, in spite of both your eyes—I heed not, I, the bolts, the locks, the spies.If you had wit, you'd say, 'Go where you will, 130Dear spouse! I credit not the tales they tell:Take all the freedoms of a married life;I know thee for a virtuous, faithful wife.'Lord! when you have enough, what need you careHow merrily soever others fare?Though all the day I give and take delight,Doubt not, sufficient will be left at night.'Tis but a just and rational desireTo light a taper at a neighbour's fire.There's danger too, you think, in rich array, 140And none can long be modest that are gay.The cat, if you but singe her tabby skin,The chimney keeps, and sits content within:But once grown sleek, will from her corner run,Sport with her tail, and wanton in the sun:She licks her fair round face, and frisks abroadTo show her fur, and to be catterwaw'd.Lo! thus, my friends, I wrought to my desiresThese three right ancient venerable sires.I told 'em, Thus you say, and thus you do; 150And told 'em false, but Jenkin swore 'twas true.I, like a dog, could bite as well as whine,And first complain'd whene'er the guilt was mine.I tax'd them oft with wenching and amours,When their weak legs scarce dragg'd them out of doorsAnd swore, the rambles that I took by nightWere all to spy what damsels they bedight:That colour brought me many hours of mirth;For all this wit is given us from our birth.Heaven gave to woman the peculiar grace 160To spin, to weep, and cully human race.By this nice conduct and this prudent course,By murmuring, wheedling, stratagem, and force,I still prevail'd, and would be in the right,Or curtain lectures made a restless night.If once my husband's arm was o'er my side,'What! so familiar with your spouse?' I cried:I levied first a tax upon his need;Then let him—'twas a nicety indeed!Let all mankind this certain maxim hold; 170Marry who will, our sex is to be sold.With empty hands no tassels you can lure,But fulsome love for gain we can endure;For gold we love the impotent and old,And heave, and pant, and kiss, and cling, for gold.Yet with embraces curses oft I mix'd,Then kiss'd again, and chid, and rail'd betwixt.Well, I may make my will in peace, and die,For not one word in man's arrears am I.To drop a dear dispute I was unable, 180E'en though the Pope himself had sat at table:But when my point was gain'd, then thus I spoke:'Billy, my dear, how sheepishly you look!Approach, my spouse, and let me kiss thy cheek;Thou shouldst be always thus, resign'd and meek!Of Job's great patience since so oft you preach,Well should you practise who so well can teach.'Tis difficult to do, I must allow,But I, my dearest! will instruct you how.Great is the blessing of a prudent wife, 190Who puts a period to domestic strife.One of us two must rule, and one obey;And since in man right reason bears the sway,Let that frail thing, weak woman, have her way.The wives of all my family have ruledTheir tender husbands, and their passions cool'd.Fye! 'tis unmanly thus to sigh and groan:What! would you have me to yourself alone?Why, take me, love! take all and every part!Here's your revenge! you love it at your heart. 200Would I vouchsafe to sell what nature gave,You little think what custom I could have.But see! I'm all your own—nay, hold—for shame!What means my dear?—indeed, you are to blame.'Thus with my first three lords I pass'd my life,A very woman, and a very wife.What sums from these old spouses I could raise,Procured young husbands in my riper days.Though past my bloom, not yet decay'd was I,Wanton and wild, and chatter'd like a pie. 210In country-dances still I bore the bell,And sung as sweet as evening Philomel.To clear my quail-pipe, and refresh my soul,Full oft I drain'd the spicy nut-brown bowl;Rich luscious wines, that youthful blood improve,And warm the swelling veins to feats of love:For 'tis as sure as cold engenders hail,A liquorish mouth must have a lecherous tail:Wine lets no lover unrewarded go,As all true gamesters by experience know. 220But oh, good gods! whene'er a thought I castOn all the joys of youth and beauty past,To find in pleasures I have had my part,Still warms me to the bottom of my heart.This wicked world was once my dear delight;Now, all my conquests, all my charms, good night!The flour consumed, the best that now I canIs e'en to make my market of the bran.My fourth dear spouse was not exceeding true;He kept, 'twas thought, a private miss or two: 230But all that score I paid—As how? you'll say,Not with my body, in a filthy way;But I so dress'd, and danced, and drank, and dined,And view'd a friend with eyes so very kind,As stung his heart, and made his marrow fry,With burning rage and frantic jealousyHis soul, I hope, enjoys eternal glory,For here on earth I was his purgatory.Oft, when his shoe the most severely wrung,He put on careless airs, and sat and sung. 240How sore I gall'd him only heaven could know,And he that felt, and I that caused the woe:He died, when last from pilgrimage I came,With other gossips from Jerusalem,And now lies buried underneath a rood,Fair to be seen, and rear'd of honest wood:A tomb, indeed, with fewer sculptures gracedThan that Mausolus' pious widow placed,Or where enshrined the great Darius lay;But cost on graves is merely thrown away. 250The pit fill'd up, with turf we cover'd o'er;So bless the good man's soul! I say no more.Now for my fifth loved lord, the last and best;(Kind heaven afford him everlasting rest!)Full hearty was his love, and I can showThe tokens on my ribs in black and blue;Yet with a knack my heart he could have won,While yet the smart was shooting in the bone.How quaint an appetite in woman reigns!Free gifts we scorn, and love what costs us pains: 260Let men avoid us, and on them we leap;A glutted market makes provisions cheap.In pure goodwill I took this jovial spark,Of Oxford he, a most egregious clerk.He boarded with a widow in the town,A trusty gossip, one dame Alison;Full well the secrets of my soul she knew,Better than e'er our parish priest could do.To her I told whatever could befall:Had but my husband piss'd against a wall, 270Or done a thing that might have cost his life,She—and my niece—and one more worthy wife,Had known it all: what most he would conceal,To these I made no scruple to reveal.Oft has he blush'd from ear to ear for shameThat e'er he told a secret to his dame.It so befell, in holy time of Lent,That oft a day I to this gossip went;(My husband, thank my stars, was out of town)From house to house we rambled up and down, 280This clerk, myself, and my good neighbour, Alse,To see, be seen, to tell, and gather tales.Visits to every church we daily paid,And march'd in every holy masquerade;The stations duly, and the vigils kept;Not much we fasted, but scarce ever slept.At sermons, too, I shone in scarlet gay:The wasting moth ne'er spoil'd my best array;The cause was this, I wore it every day.'Twas when fresh May her early blossoms yields, 290This clerk and I were walking in the fields.We grew so intimate, I can't tell how,I pawn'd my honour, and engaged my vow,If e'er I laid my husband in his urn,That he, and only he, should serve my turn.We straight struck hands, the bargain was agreed;I still have shifts against a time of need:The mouse that always trusts to one poor holeCan never be a mouse of any soul.I vow'd I scarce could sleep since first I knew him, 300And durst be sworn he had bewitch'd me to himIf e'er I slept, I dream'd of him alone,And dreams foretell, as learned men have shown:All this I said; but dreams, sirs, I had none:I follow'd but my crafty crony's lore,Who bid me tell this lie—and twenty more.Thus day by day, and month by mouth we pass'd;It pleased the Lord to take my spouse at last.I tore my gown, I soil'd my locks with dust,And beat my breasts, as wretched widows must. 310Before my face my handkerchief I spread,To hide the flood of tears I did not shed.The good man's coffin to the church was borne;Around, the neighbours, and my clerk, too, mourn:But as he march'd, good gods! he show'd a pairOf legs and feet so clean, so strong, so fair!Of twenty winters' age he seem'd to be;I (to say truth) was twenty more than he;But vigorous still, a lively buxom dame,And had a wondrous gift to quench a flame. 320A conjuror once, that deeply could divine,Assured me Mars in Taurus was my sign.As the stars order'd, such my life has been:Alas, alas! that ever love was sin!Fair Venus gave me fire and sprightly grace,And Mars assurance and a dauntless face.By virtue of this powerful constellation,I follow'd always my own inclination.But to my tale: A month scarce pass'd away,With dance and song we kept the nuptial day. 330All I possess'd I gave to his command,My goods and chattels, money, house, and land;But oft repented, and repent it still;He proved a rebel to my sovereign will;Nay, once, by heaven! he struck me on the face;Hear but the fact, and judge yourselves the case.Stubborn as any lioness was I,And knew full well to raise my voice on high;As true a rambler as I was before,And would be so in spite of all he swore. 340He against this right sagely would advise,And old examples set before my eyes;Tell how the Roman matrons led their life,Of Gracchus' mother, and Duilius' wife;And close the sermon, as beseem'd his wit,With some grave sentence out of Holy Writ.Oft would he say, 'Who builds his house on sands,Pricks his blind horse across the fallow lands;Or lets his wife abroad with pilgrims roam,Deserves a fool's cap and long ears at home.' 350All this avail'd not, for whoe'er he beThat tells my faults, I hate him mortally!And so do numbers more, I'll boldly say,Men, women, clergy, regular, and lay.My spouse (who was, you know, to learning bred)A certain treatise oft at evening read,Where divers authors (whom the devil confoundFor all their lies) were in one volume bound:Valerius whole, and of St Jerome part;Chrysippus and Tertullian, Ovid's Art, 360Solomon's Proverbs, Eloisa's Loves,And many more than, sure, the Church approves.More legends were there here of wicked wivesThan good in all the Bible and saints' lives.Who drew the lion vanquish'd? 'Twas a man:But could we women write as scholars can,Men should stand mark'd with far more wickednessThan all the sons of Adam could redress.Love seldom haunts the breast where learning lies,And Venus sets ere Mercury can rise. 370Those play the scholars who can't play the men,And use that weapon which they have, their pen:When old, and past the relish of delight,Then down they sit, and in their dotage write,That not one woman keeps her marriage-vow.(This by the way, but to my purpose now:)It chanced my husband, on a winter's night,Read in this book aloud with strange delight,How the first female (as the Scriptures show)Brought her own spouse and all his race to woe; 380How Samson fell; and he whom DejanireWrapp'd in th' envenom'd shirt, and set on fire;How cursed Eriphyle her lord betray'd,And the dire ambush Clytemnestra laid;But what most pleased him was the Cretan dameAnd husband-bull—Oh, monstrous! fye, for shame!He had by heart the whole detail of woeXantippe made her good man undergo;How oft she scolded in a day he knew,How many pisspots on the sage she threw; 390Who took it patiently, and wiped his head:'Rain follows thunder,' that was all he said.He read how Arius to his friend complain'dA fatal tree was growing in his land,On which three wives successively had twinedA sliding noose, and waver'd in the wind.'Where grows this plant,' replied the friend, 'oh! where?For better fruit did never orchard bear:Give me some slip of this most blissful tree,And in my garden planted it shall be!' 400Then how two wives their lords' destruction prove,Through hatred one, and one through too much love;That for her husband mix'd a poisonous draught,And this for lust an amorous philtre bought:The nimble juice soon seized his giddy head,Frantic at night, and in the morning dead.How some with swords their sleeping lords have slain,And some have hammer'd nails into their brain,And some have drench'd them with a deadly potion:All this he read, and read with great devotion. 410Long time I heard, and swell'd, and blush'd, and frown'd;But when no end of these vile tales I found,When still he read, and laugh'd, and read again,And half the night was thus consumed in vain,Provoked to vengeance, three large leaves I tore,And with one buffet fell'd him on the floor.With that my husband in a fury rose,And down he settled me with hearty blows.I groan'd, and lay extended on my side;'Oh! thou hast slain me for my wealth!' I cried, 420'Yet I forgive thee—take my last embrace—'He wept, kind soul! and stoop'd to kiss my face:I took him such a box as turn'd him blue,Then sigh'd, and cried, 'Adieu, my dear, adieu!'But after many a hearty struggle past,I condescended to be pleased at last.Soon as he said, 'My mistress and my wife!Do what you list the term of all your life,'I took to heart the merits of the cause,And stood content to rule by wholesome laws; 430Received the reins of absolute command,With all the government of house and land,And empire o'er his tongue and o'er his hand.As for the volume that reviled the dames,'Twas torn to fragments, and condemn'd to flames.Now, Heaven, on all my husbands gone bestowPleasures above for tortures felt below:That rest they wish'd for, grant them in the grave,And bless those souls my conduct help'd to save!
As when that hero, who, in each campaign,Had braved the Goth, and many a Vandal slain,Lay fortune-struck, a spectacle of woe!Wept by each friend, forgiven by every foe:Was there a generous, a reflecting mind,But pitied Belisarius, old and blind?Was there a chief but melted at the sight?A common soldier, but who clubb'd his mite?Such, such emotions should in Britons rise,When press'd by want and weakness Dennis lies; 10Dennis, who long had warr'd with modern Huns,Their quibbles routed, and defied their puns;A desperate bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce,Against the Gothic sons of frozen verse:How changed from him who made the boxes groan,And shook the stage with thunders all his own!Stood up to dash each vain pretender's hope,Maul the French tyrant, or pull down the Pope!If there's a Briton then, true bred and born,Who holds dragoons and wooden shoes in scorn; 20If there's a critic of distinguished rage;If there's a senior who contemns this age:Let him to night his just assistance lend,And be the critic's, Briton's, old man's friend.
To wake the soul by tender strokes of art,To raise the genius, and to mend the heart;To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold,Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold:For this the tragic Muse first trod the stage,Commanding tears to stream through every age;Tyrants no more their savage nature kept,And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept.Our author shuns by vulgar springs to moveThe hero's glory, or the virgin's love; 10In pitying love, we but our weakness show,And wild ambition well deserves its woe.Here tears shall flow from a more generous cause,Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws:He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise,And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.Virtue confess'd in human shape he draws,What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was:No common object to your sight displays,But what with pleasure Heaven itself surveys, 20A brave man struggling in the storms of fate,And greatly falling with a falling state.While Cato gives his little senate laws,What bosom beats not in his country's cause?Who sees him act, but envies every deed?Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?E'en when proud Caesar, 'midst triumphal cars,The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars,Ignobly vain, and impotently great,Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state; 30As her dead father's reverend image pass'd,The pomp was darkened, and the day o'ercast;The triumph ceased, tears gush'd from every eye;The world's great victor pass'd unheeded by;Her last good man dejected Rome adored,And honour'd Caesar's less than Cato's sword.Britons, attend: be worth like this approved,And show you have the virtue to be moved.With honest scorn the first famed Cato view'dRome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued: 40Your scene precariously subsists too longOn French translation and Italian song.Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the stage,Be justly warm'd with your own native rage:Such plays alone should win a British ear,As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear.
When Learning, after the long Gothic night,Fair, o'er the western world, renew'd its light,With arts arising, Sophonisba rose;The tragic Muse, returning, wept her woes.With her th' Italian scene first learn'd to glow,And the first tears for her were taught to flow:Her charms the Gallic Muses next inspired;Corneille himself saw, wonder'd, and was fired.What foreign theatres with pride have shown,Britain, by juster title, makes her own. 10When freedom is the cause, 'tis hers to fight,And hers, when freedom is the theme, to write.For this a British author bids againThe heroine rise, to grace the British scene:Here, as in life, she breathes her genuine flame,She asks, What bosom has not felt the same?Asks of the British youth—is silence there?She dares to ask it of the British fair.To-night our homespun author would be true,At once to nature, history, and you. 20Well pleased to give our neighbours due applause,He owns their learning, but disdains their laws;Not to his patient touch, or happy flame,'Tis to his British heart he trusts for fame.If France excel him in one freeborn thought,The man, as well as poet, is in fault.Nature! informer of the poet's art,Whose force alone can raise or melt the heart,Thou art his guide; each passion, every line,Whate'er he draws to please, must all be thine. 30Be thou his judge: in every candid breastThy silent whisper is the sacred test.
Grown old in rhyme, 'twere barbarous to discardYour persevering, unexhausted bard;Damnation follows death in other men,But your damn'd poet lives and writes again.The adventurous lover is successful still,Who strives to please the fair against her will:Be kind, and make him in his wishes easy,Who in your own despite has strove to please ye.He scorn'd to borrow from the wits of yore,But ever writ, as none e'er writ before. 10You modern wits, should each man bring his claim,Have desperate debentures on your fame;And little would be left you, I'm afraid,If all your debts to Greece and Rome were paid.From this deep fund our author largely draws,Nor sinks his credit lower than it was.Though plays for honour in old time he made,'Tis now for better reasons—to be paid.Believe him, he has known the world too long,And seen the death of much immortal song. 20He says, poor poets lost, while players won,As pimps grow rich, while gallants are undone.Though Tom the poet writ with ease and pleasure,The comic Tom abounds in other treasure.Fame is at best an unperforming cheat;But 'tis substantial happiness to eat.Let ease, his last request, be of your giving,Nor force him to be damn'd to get his living.
Authors are judged by strange capricious rules;The great ones are thought mad, the small ones fools:Yet sure the best are most severely fated;For fools are only laugh'd at, wits are hated.Blockheads with reason men of sense abhor;But fool 'gainst fool, is barbarous civil war.Why on all authors, then, should critics fall?Since some have writ, and shown no wit at all.Condemn a play of theirs, and they evade it;Cry, 'Damn not us, but damn the French, who made it.' 10By running goods these graceless owlers gain;Theirs are the rules of France, the plots of Spain;But wit, like wine, from happier climates brought,Dash'd by these rogues, turns English common draught.They pall Molière's and Lopez' sprightly strain,And teach dull harlequins to grin in vain.How shall our author hope a gentler fate,Who dares most impudently not translate?It had been civil, in these ticklish times,To fetch his fools and knaves from foreign climes; 20Spaniards and French abuse to the world's end,But spare old England, lest you hurt a friend.If any fool is by our satire bit,Let him hiss loud, to show you all he's hit.Poets make characters, as salesmen clothes;We take no measure of your fops and beaux;But here all sizes and all shapes you meet,And fit yourselves, like chaps in Monmouth Street.Gallants, look here! this fool's cap60has an air, 30Goodly and smart, with ears of Issachar.Let no one fool engross it, or confineA common blessing: now 'tis yours, now mine.But poets in all ages had the careTo keep this cap for such as will, to wear.Our author has it now (for every witOf course resign'd it to the next that writ)And thus upon the stage 'tis fairly thrown;61Let him that takes it wear it as his own.
Prodigious this! the frail one of our playFrom her own sex should mercy find to-day!You might have held the pretty head aside,Peep'd in your fans, been serious thus, and cried—'The play may pass—but that strange creature, Shore,I can't—indeed now—I so hate a whore—'Just as a blockhead rubs his thoughtless skull,And thanks his stars he was not born a fool;So from a sister sinner you shall hear,'How strangely you expose yourself, my dear!' 10But let me die, all raillery apart,Our sex are still forgiving at their heart;And, did not wicked custom so contrive,We'd be the best good-natured things alive.There are, 'tis true, who tell another tale,That virtuous ladies envy while they rail;Such rage without, betrays the fire within;In some close corner of the soul they sin;Still hoarding up, most scandalously nice,Amidst their virtues a reserve of vice. 20The godly dame, who fleshly failings damns,Scolds with her maid, or with her chaplain crams.Would you enjoy soft nights and solid dinners?Faith, gallants, board with saints, and bed with sinners,Well, if our author in the wife offends,He has a husband that will make amends;He draws him gentle, tender, and forgiving;And sure such kind good creatures may be living.In days of old, they pardon'd breach of vows,Stern Cato's self was no relentless spouse: 30Plu—Plutarch, what's his name that writes his life?Tells us, that Cato dearly loved his wife:Yet if a friend, a night or so, should need her,He'd recommend her as a special breeder.To lend a wife, few here would scruple make;But, pray, which of you all would take her back?Though with the Stoic chief our stage may ring,The Stoic husband was the glorious thing.The man had courage, was a sage, 'tis true,And loved his country—but what's that to you? 40Those strange examples ne'er were made to fit ye,But the kind cuckold might instruct the city:There, many an honest man may copy Cato,Who ne'er saw naked sword, or look'd in Plato.If, after all, you think it a disgrace,That Edward's miss thus perks it in your face;To see a piece of failing flesh and blood,In all the rest so impudently good;Faith, let the modest matrons of the townCome here in crowds, and stare the strumpet down. 50
CARDELIA.The basset-table spread, the tallier come;Why stays Smilinda in the dressing-room?Rise, pensive nymph, the tallier waits for you!SMILINDA.Ah, madam, since my Sharper is untrue,I joyless make my once adored Alpeu.I saw him stand behind Ombrelia's chair,And whisper with that soft, deluding air,And those feign'd sighs which cheat the listening fair.CARDELIA.Is this the cause of your romantic strains?A mightier grief my heavy heart sustains. 10As you by love, so I by fortune cross'd,One, one bad deal, three Septlevas have lost.SMILINDA.Is that the grief, which you compare with mine?With ease, the smiles of Fortune I resign:Would all my gold in one bad deal were gone!Were lovely Sharper mine, and mine alone.CARDELIA.A lover lost, is but a common care;And prudent nymphs against that change prepare:The Knave of Clubs thrice lost! Oh! who could guessThis fatal stroke, this unforeseen distress? 20SMILINDA.See Betty Lovet! veryàproposShe all the cares of love and play does know:Dear Betty shall th' important point decide;Betty, who oft the pain of each has tried;Impartial, she shall say who suffers most,By cards' ill usage, or by lovers lost.LOVET.Tell, tell your griefs; attentive will I stay,Though time is precious, and I want some tea.CARDELIA.Behold this equipage, by Mathers wrought,With fifty guineas (a great pen'orth) bought. 30See, on the tooth-pick, Mars and Cupid strive;And both the struggling figures seem alive.Upon the bottom shines the queen's bright face;A myrtle foliage round the thimble-case.Jove, Jove himself, does on the scissors shine;The metal, and the workmanship, divine!SMILINDA.This snuff-box,—once the pledge of Sharper's love,When rival beauties for the present strove;At Corticelli's he the raffle won;Then first his passion was in public shown: 40Hazardia blush'd, and turn'd her head aside,A rival's envy (all in vain) to hide.This snuff-box,—on the hinge see brilliants shine:This snuff-box will I stake; the prize is mine.CARDELIA.Alas! far lesser losses than I bear,Have made a soldier sigh, a lover swear.And oh! what makes the disappointment hard,'Twas my own lord that drew the fatal card.In complaisance, I took the Queen he gave;Though my own secret wish was for the Knave. 50The Knave won Sonica, which I had chose;And the next pull, my Septleva I lose.SMILINDA.But ah! what aggravates the killing smart,The cruel thought, that stabs me to the heart;This cursed Ombrelia, this undoing fair,By whose vile arts this heavy grief I bear;She, at whose name I shed these spiteful tears,She owes to me the very charms she wears.An awkward thing, when first she came to town;Her shape unfashion'd, and her face unknown: 60She was my friend; I taught her first to spreadUpon her sallow cheeks enlivening red:I introduced her to the park and plays;And, by my interest, Cozens made her stays.Ungrateful wretch! with mimic airs grown pert,She dares to steal my favourite lover's heart.CARDELIA.Wretch that I was, how often have I swore,When Winnall tallied, I would punt no more?I know the bite, yet to my ruin run;And see the folly, which I cannot shun. 70SMILINDA.How many maids have Sharper's vows deceived?How many cursed the moment they believed?Yet his known falsehood could no warning prove:Ah! what is warning to a maid in love?CARDELIA.But of what marble must that breast be form'd,To gaze on basset, and remain unwarm'd?When Kings, Queens, Knaves, are set in decent rank;Exposed in glorious heaps the tempting bank,Guineas, half-guineas, all the shining train;The winner's pleasure, and the loser's pain: 80In bright confusion open rouleaus lie,They strike the soul, and glitter in the eye.Fired by the sight, all reason I disdain;My passions rise, and will not bear the rein.Look upon basset, you who reason boast,And see if reason must not there be lost.SMILINDA.What more than marble must that heart compose,Can hearken coldly to my Sharper's vows?Then, when he trembles, when his blushes rise,When awful love seems melting in his eyes! 90With eager beats his Mechlin cravat moves:He loves!—I whisper to myself—he loves!Such unfeign'd passion in his looks appears,I lose all memory of my former fears;My panting heart confesses all his charms,I yield at once, and sink into his arms:Think of that moment, you who prudence boast;For such a moment, prudence well were lost.CARDELIA.At the groom-porter's, batter'd bullies play,Some dukes at Mary-bone bowl time away. 100But who the bowl or rattling dice comparesTo basset's heavenly joys, and pleasing cares?SMILINDA.Soft Simplicetta dotes upon a beau;Prudina likes a man, and laughs at show.Their several graces in my Sharper meet;Strong as the footman, as the master sweet.LOVET.Cease your contention, which has been too long;I grow impatient, and the tea's too strong.Attend, and yield to what I now decide;The equipage shall grace Smilinda's side: 110The snuff-box to Cardelia I decree.Now leave complaining, and begin your tea.