A Satyr

Sated with Pleasure you no more will rove
But fix your Fortune, and confine your Love;
Tis thus you say—Determind at the last,
The Choice is made, the word of Honnour past,
The portion, that material point, agreed,
Advice comes late, I cannot now recede.
To say the truth, tir'd with my rambling Life
I wish the solid Comfort of a Wife,
To pass in peace My now declineing years
And disapoint the hopes of Greedy heirs,
And then I think, what pleasure it will be
A Little riseing Family to see,
To view my Image in an Infant face
And see renew'd the honnours of my Race.
In search of happyness we blindly stray,
Tis heaven alone directs the proper way,
And Man can only boast of true Delight
When Law confines the wand'ring Appetite.
Have you then thought, oh unrefflecting Freind,
On every Chance that does that Choice attend?
In Silence will you Sullenly repent
Or have you gaind the Skill to be content?
Methinks I hear you toast your beauteous bride
And wish each Freind the happy State had tryd,
Yet when the parting hour, tho' late, is come
You sit the last and tremble to go home.
Go cheerfull on, perhaps you need not fear,
'Tis ten to one, you do not meet her there.
'Tis true yon red appears the Break of Day
But yet my Lady mayn't be ris from Play,
Still crouds of Hacks attend at Damon's Door
And waiting Chairmen on the Benches snore
While well-bred Footmen with repeated Knocks
Repay the Echo of the upper Box.
When she returns, blest Husband as you are,
You must your tender Consort's sorrows share
And kindly listen while the sighing Dame
Tells by what strange Surprize she lost the Game,
By what unthought of Chance, unheard before,
When 7 the main some Devil brought up 4.
Such cursed Fortune cannot allways last,
One Lucky Night may recompence the past.
Wise Arguments like these must needs prevail,
Mortgage your land or set your House to Sale,
Debts must be paid or Madam's Credit Fail.
Yet rather may you meet this moderate Fate,
Mourning at worst the loss of your Estate,
Then wed a frugal manager like some
Who dare not ask a Freind to dine at home,
But Starve at home with a dear carefull spouse
Whose good Oeconnomy no Fire allows,
Or if you stir, must trust it in the wet
Till Coach is call'd, on t'other side the Street,
Give strict accounts even of your pocket Gold
(And) see the short allowance often told.
Nor vainly think this wife your wealth assures,
Money indeed is heap'd, but tis not yours,
Dearly you pay for all your easy hours
Till her insatiate hand the whole Devours.
Then should your fortune frown and freinds desert
Hope not to see return'd the smallest part,
Unpitying She beholds you drag'd to Jail
And at your vain Expence does loudly rail,
Your vanish'd Fortune plac'd you know not where
Rewards the Lady for her prudent Care.—
Quick you reply, The Maid I make my Choice,
Incapable of such detested vice,
In Sweet retirement wastes her virgin Days,
Unknown at Court, and rarely seen at plays,
Avoids the Dang'rous pride of Public praise.
A Pious Mother's care directs her Youth
In Paths of Virtue, Modesty and Truth.
Pleas'd she submits to her experienced Guide,
Fond of her Guard and ever by her side.
Suppose this true, yet have you never known
An artless Innocence brought up to Town,
Led by her Spouse, for thither she must come,
To Plays, assemblys, Church and Drawing room,
Soon grow Polite, all sense of Shame laid by
(Or but asham'd of Rustic Modesty)
She hears, not only hears, but gay, Coquette,
With pert advances all Mankind are met.
Freely she raillys on her ruind fame
And proudly Triumphs in a madcap's Name
Till to the last extremes of Lewdness run
She Courts your Footman, or corrupts your Son.
Happy for you, if vicious without Art
Her Conduct furnishes pretexts to part,
But more I fear, for that we often see
Her tast confind to modish Gallantry.
Then round her Toilet waiting Lovers stand,
One gains a Glance, and one the pritty hand,
While her glad Eyes the sighing Croud surveys,
Charm'd with the Incense of Insipid praise.
Here every fulsome Fop is welcome seen,
When you approach, my Lady has the Spleen.
To morning Hours no Husband has a right,
Tis Just you should expect the happy Night,
Then you may see the careless fair undressd,
Her Day Complexion on the Toilet plac'd,
Some rare Pomatum shrouds her shineing Charms,
And so prepar'd receive her to your Arms.
Thus is the Beauty by her Spouse enjoy'd,
For others all inviteing Arts employ'd,
For them, selects her silks with nicest care,
For them in vary'd Curles she sets her hair,
With Hoops and heads of every form and size
Follows the Protean Fashion as it flys,
And should you murmur at the vain Expence
What a loud torrent of Impertinence!
Was ever tender Wife so coarsly us'd?
Was ever virtuous Love so much abus'd?
And after all of what do you complain?
Is't not your Credit that she should be clean?
In spite of Birthday suits and lace grown dear
She shifts with bare 500 [pounds] a year.
I see you mov'd with such pathetic crys
And some new Jewel future Quiet buys.
But there are Ladys not so soon appeasd,
Who are most happy seeming most displeas'd,
Fond of Occasions to exert their Power,
The wretched Husband knows no Silent hour,
The House a Scene of strong perpetual Noise,
The Servants' Curses or the Children's Cries.
Yet these are Gentle to those Furious Dames
Whose Hearts the rage of Jealousie enflames.
Then is the time to know the Sexes Fire,
What vengeance Vain Suspicion can inspire,
In every Street you meet her watchfull Spies
And oft her selfe mobd in some odd Disguise
With Thunder on her Tongue and Light'ning in her Eyes.
You sigh and think this very hard to bear
But would you rather Chuse a sickly fair?
In Dishabillé allways on the bed,
Now groans, the Cholic, now laments her Head,
In spite of hartshorn 20 times a day
Oppress'd with Vapours, allmost faints away.
What can such Languishments and sighings mean?
Some Dire distress must cause the mournfull Scene,
A Fever, sure, attacks the fondled Heir
And can you Justly blame a Mother's fear?
No, tis some servant she would have displac'd,
For too much sense abhor'd, with too much favour gracd,
Or to prevent some Journey you design'd,
Better to Dye, than be from Town confind.
But leaving to her tears this tender Dame,
Persue my Muse a more exalted Theme,
The Learned She, who makes her wise remarks
On Whiston's Lectures or on Dr Clark's,
And quite dispiseing mean Domestic Cares
Only regards the motions of the Stars.
A Gilded Telescope oft fills her hand,
An Orrery does on her Toilet stand,
New Systems seeks, will all Dark points explore,
Charm'd with Opinions never heard before,
Boldly derideing Superstitious fear,
Raillys the mysterys she should revere,
Mistakeing what she cannot comprehend
In downright Atheism her Studys end.
With Joy this odious Charecter I quit
To shew more comical pretence to Wit,
The Politician whose fantastic Zeal
Impairs her Health to mind the Public weal,
Makes grave Refflections on the weekly Lies,
Reads all the Pamphlets Grubstreet can devise,
Even at her Tea instead of female Chat
With matchiavilian Art reforms the State,
Proffess'd a Champion of her Party's Cause
Raillys our Rulers, and arraigns the Laws.
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