O! how the fex will laugh, to fee the man,
Who in loose fatire has done all he can,
To fet the husband and the spouse at strife,
Satir'd himself so sharply in a wife!
When bullets fly, warriors are fafe in mail.
But what defence, what armour can prevail
Against the bofom curfe of tooth and nail.
Fland plods on in the fame path; and yet
Has the ambition to be thought a wit;
When he's the trueft glafs in which we fee,
How vile a thing a hen-peck'd chit may be :
The lofs of freedom long h'has mourn'd in vain ;
But will be longer e'er 'tis found again:
And may that be the fate of ev'ry fool

That's govern'd there where he has pow'r to rule.
There's L- -cy too, whofe follies to express,
Wou'd be as hard a task as to redress;
For let the world be judge, (as fure it will)
If h' had not better kept the player still;
Tho' now and then he might have the mishap
To get that mark of gentleman, (a clap)
Than marry home-bred punk without a groat,
And (which is worfe) not find the peace he fought.
In this vain rank Gerrard the fop may pass,
That whiffling, whimfical, fantastic afs;
Beneath the curfe of matrimonial strife,
Tho' none can be more wretched in a wife :
What man befides himself, could be fo dull,
So void of that which fhou'd have poiz'd his fcull,
To wed a jilt in height of luft and youth?
And madly think to beat her into truth,
When with all modefty I dare maintain,
That he may grow as wife, as now he's vain,
E'er that falfe fcouring drab turns true again.
Nor is infipid Stamford lefs to blame,
In wife, and wit, his cafe is much the fame :
Well might he think one of fo vast a fize
Wou'd not be pleas'd, without as vaft supplies.
There's not a hackney-coach that fcours the town,
In which fh' has not been bugger'd up and down ;
Either by lord, knight, fquire, page, or clown.

Knaves may be honeft, ufurers be juft,
Or a town jilt ftill prostitute on trust ;
Strollers not scratch, altho' they have the itch,
E'er his lewd countess cease to be at b

Had Arund

/ but fhunn'd his wretched fate.

H' had fcap'd the knowing what he knows too late;
The knowing he a jilt to 'is arms prefers,
That has had many well-hung fools in her's:
Wou'd he be merry, ftrait his confort's noise,
E'er he can think, th' abortive thought destroys;
Or wou'd he be devout, (which is but rare)
She'll make him mingle curfes with his pray'r:
At home, abroad, at park, or play, or ball,
A wife ftill dashes his delight with gall.

But of all thofe that in our lift appear

(And there are choice of thoughtless coxcombs here)
There's none more despicable than K— Idare :
A wretch, which, if we fcan, we foon fhall find,
His form is juft proportion'd to his mind.
Others fometimes may have fome truce from ftrife,
But he's for ever harrafs'd with a wife:
And fuch a wife as hourly makes him feel
Th' effects of her damn'd Prefbyterian zeal.
Five pounds a week fhe allows him for expence,
To fhow the world he is a man of sense.
Were I to chufe my shape, 'twou'd be my pray'r
To be a dog, a monkey, or a bear,
Or any thing, but that vain animal K-

Idare.

Rocks that lie hid no mortal can avoid,
We pity those by such a fate destroy'd ;
But when they far above the waves appear,
He must be mad that feeks for fafety there;
What then can Ethridge urge in his defence,
What reafon bring, unless 'tis want of sense?
For all he pleads befides is mere pretence.
Merit, with honour, join'd's a crown to life;
But he got honour for to get a wife.
Prepoft rous knighthood! in the gift fevere,
For never was a knighthood bought so dear.
Trace him from youth to his maturer age,
In all the time he triumph'd on the stage ;,

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And every fentence fcan, and action weigh,
In's prating, fnarling, drunkenness, or play;
And e'er you fuch another brute can find,
That goes for man, and herds with human kind;
He fhall turn found, his old spouse cease to stink,
(Impoffibilities that ne'er can link)

Nay, which is more, he fhall be freed from ftrife,
From all th' incroaching plagues that wait on life;
Tho' curs'd with lofs of money, pox, and wife.
But here we must leave railing for a while,
And change our fharp, to an obliging ftile;
For whenfo'er we B ber's praife begin,
Envy is dumb, and fatires ceafe to grin :
His graceful mien refiftless charms impart,
And glides unfelt into a female heart;
While on his lips fuch smooth difcourfe is hung,
His perfon's lefs attractive than his tongue.
In Julian's books his choiceft virtues shine,
And dart fresh luftre out at every line;
Nor is the hero lefs admir'd in mine.
Tho' had he 'fcap'd the matrimonial fnare,
And ftill drefs'd on, like Andrew in a fair;
Been bubble, cully, whimsical, or dull,
Or in tranflating Butler crack'd his fcull,
He might have 'fcap'd the notion of a fool;
Which now is fix'd as lafting at his life:
For death's the fafeft refuge from wife.

The veil's pluck'd off, and now the monster bare,
Let Herwit then, and Henningham beware;
For tho' all men have faults, we must confefs,
Take marriage out, and every man has lefs.
Yet let 'em ftill continue lewd, or vain,
One boafts of fighting, t' other of his strain;
'Bate matrimony, and I'll not complain :
For here I fix it as a public rule,

'Tis better live à fop than die a fool.

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A Satire

C

A Satire against MATRIMONY,

URSE on thofe fenfelefs fools who difallow
Those harmless sports nature commands us to
Without indenture, and loud proclamation,
Made by a fop to a dull congregation:

When as the gods cou'd ne'er endure that fashion.
To priests, like fcriveners, fome will apply
Themselves, who doubt of their security;
But generous fouls, like gods, move in a sphere
Above those tyes, made by old finners here;
They are for that free way of propagation,
Made by the law of nature, not o' th' nation;
Which dulls the pleasure by its limitation.
Let foppifh zeal, devotion's baftard, fay
What e'er it can; or private pleasures may
Be as divine, altho' not us'd that way :
It is more modeft; that, I'm fure, you'll fay..
What you call virtue's but a compofition
Of fuch ingredients nature makes her fish on ::
Dull phlegm and melancholy do produce
Zeal in abundance, that does introduce
Such bug-bears in your fancy, that an ant
Appears to you to be an elephant:
Nature, the gods great inftrument, must be
Branded by you, with all the infamy
You can afperfe her with; and all, because
She gives us freedom, by her facred laws,
To use those pleasures fhe for us has made,.
And not to ftand upon the Levite's aid.
Good man, he cries for matrimony! why?
It brings a gain to his divinity:
Chrift'nings and burials to the fame I vow,
If you omit' em, there's damnation too!
But, why should the poor brat in danger be
Of being damn'd, because not cross'd by thee?
Or why, where funeral rite omitted is,
Shoud that obftruct the mortal's way to bliss?

G 6

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Thefe

These, and dull nuptials, all your wife men faw
Were nothing, but to complement the law :
So that the book and ring appear to me
Such a mistake in your divinity,

That you

mut grant, the

ceremony

fent

To fuch poor mortals, for a punishment,
As cou'd not with their freedom be content.

G

The Battle of the BAUDS.

IVE o'er, you tilting sparks o' th' pit, give o'er,
And fright the boxes and yourselves no more,

Two Amazons, of fcandalous renown,

Have with dire battle made the field their own:
Their fray on no flight grounds, like yours was made;
But for pre-eminence in their famous trade.
Boih for the public break their midnight fleep,
And open courts for lated mortals keep:
No rank of men their palaces refuse,
From filbert prentices to acorn Jews.
Zeal to the public did their rage

excite :

But who can speak the terror of the fight?

The oaths, the yells, the fweat, the duft, the blood,
Are not to be exprefs'd, nor understood.

Strong farc'net fcarves, with hood of gauze more flight,
Promiscuously were fcatter'd in the fight:
Necklace and pendants perifh'd in the fray,
And reverend point that did the art display
Of ages paft, had now its fatal day:
Our upper regions, ravifh'd at the fight,
With din of clatt'ring flicks applaud the fight;
Nay ev'n our fparks o' th' pit, like Trojans true,
Made a fair ring, and ftood fpectators too.

Could not your own fenfe make you tender hearted,
Who have the comfort known of being parted;
'Tis ftrange, that matrons fo obliging kind,
In a full pit, fhou'd no acquaintance find!
Some fide-box nymphs, 'tis true, made proteftation,
This war wou'd be the ruin of the nation;

I

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Which