Classic Poem

If that, to be Close-Fisted, be the Blame
Of Men of Honour, and a Stile of Shame,
To be Close-Thigh'd, in Women, is the fame;
Why Honour to Men, shou'd it only be,
To be still of their Flesh, accounted free?
Yet, shou'd it be the Woman's Loss of Fame,
Which gives the Pushing Heroe his Good Name,
Be the Man's Honour, yet the Woman's Shame?
Shou'd Chearful Giving, Givers more disgrace?
The Voluntary Gift, bribes most our Praise;
Great Ladies, like Great Men, are but more Great,
But the more they, themselves Communicate;
Justice, the World's great Mistress, in her Hall
Of Westminster , for being general,
Or Common, is but su'd to more, by all;
And only more, shou'd all Men's Censure fear,
But as she, to more Suiters, does appear,
In Love, or Pity, more Particular;
Since Honour lies in Generosity,
Which nothing can (when ask'd by Friends) deny;
The Dame of the most Hospitable Heart,
Who, to Mankind, her Bowels does impart,
Her Love does then more Honourably prove,
As she seems Nobly Freer of her Love;
For sure, if Selfishness be most the Shame,
Of a true Great Man, or a Noble Dame,
She who scorns most her Honour, or Good Name,
When 'tis to serve, or pleasure her True Friends,
In spight of Fame, justly to more pretends;
The less her Debt of Love is, by her Pride,
To her Friends Love, ungratefully deny'd;
So she shou'd, for most Honourable, pass,
Who least, for one Man, fears from all Disgrace;
Who, Honour, Int'rest, does for Love defie,
Who, rather than let them, who love her, die,
Can to them nothing, which she has, deny;
She more Disgrace, shou'd rather undergo,
Whose Pride lets her, to Love, no Justice do,
But on her Honour, stands dishon'rably,
And of her self, more to her Infamy,
So vainly Choice is, or so Niggardly;
That she her self, will, from her Pleasure, Fast;
Rather, than let her Friends her Bounty taste;
Nay, thinks her self more Honourably Kind,
As more to one, her Charity's confin'd;
Whilst she less Worthy of your Praise appears,
The more she thinks to gain more Worshippers,
As fewest Men, she favours, or she hears;
Tho', ev'n the Gods themselves (all Mortals know)
Wou'd lose our Praise, their Glory, shou'd they grow
Particular, and but their Favour show
To one poor, single, kneeling Supplicant;
But they their Grace to all, who seek it, grant;
Then Angel-Women but like Angels are,
More fam'd and honour'd by Men's Public Pray'r;
They then are mean, unheeded Goddesses,
Who bring but few Devoto's on their Knees,
Who will but hear Particular Complaints,
So must have few, and sensless Supplicants;
Your Pride does you then of our Praise defeat,
'Tis Public Worship makes Earth's Angels Great,
That House most Noble is, which most does Treat;
Common is not a Stile then of Disgrace,
To be call'd Common, is the greatest Praise;
The Commonwealth, is the Concern of all,
The Commons House, we Honourable call,
And the Proud Town yields to the Common Hall;
The Common Law, is that which bears the Sway,
But for which, God's Law Man wou'd not obey;
The Common Good, does most our Service claim;
For being so, why then, a Common Dame,
Shou'd we not, but as more a Common Friend,
Esteem the more, more commonly commend?
Why shou'd that Epithet of Common, prove,
Honour to Friendship, yet Disgrace to Love?
Why must that Epithet, to all apply'd,
But Woman, be the Stile of Pow'r, and Pride,
Yet she be for it but more vilify'd?
The Sun, the greatest Beauty sure of all,
If 'twere not Common, wou'd have none to fall
Down on their Knees to it, or it to call
A Deity: Why shou'd all Public Men
Get Praise and Fame by that Stile, which has been
The Public Woman's Infamy and Blame,
If Praise be due still to the Public Name?
And she most prais'd is, most remarkable,
Who most known is, and follow'd by the Rabble;
Queans, Queens alike, are to the Public known,
Why then to Women, shou'd it be alone,
Shame to be known by all, to Men Renown?
Women, like Books, shou'd valu'd be the more,
As by more Men, more tumbled o'er and o'er;
And her, the best sure, like them, shou'd we call,
Who has not been by one Man known, but all;
The Public is the noblest Proof of Wit,
Beauties get Praise but by the Test of it;
Each is most follow'd for her Public Fame,
So Public is a Stile of Praise, not Shame;
Whilst that of Private or Peculiar grows,
To a Great Woman's Honour, infamous;
Man's Public Name, and Open Heart's his Praise,
Why shou'd they be, the Public Dame's Disgrace?
The Public Stamp, the Price of Gold does raise;
And Books, as Coins, are priz'd more by most Men,
As the more current, both about have been;
She, who most Public Approbation has,
For the most Honourable she, shou'd pass;
Like Armour, each shou'd for her Public Proof,
Go better with most Public Chapmen off;
'Tis no Dishonour, to be ask'd and woo'd,
Of many Lovers, Women shou'd be proud;
Then Infamous we her can only call,
Who (more to her to Shame) has had none at all.