For why should he who made address,
All humble ways, without success,
And met with nothing, in return,
But insolence, affronts, and scorn,
Not strive by wit to countermine,
And bravely carry his design?
He who was us’d so unlike a soldier,
Blown up with philtres of love-powder?
And after letting blood, and purging,
Condemn’d to voluntary scourging;
Alarm’d with many a horrid fright,
And claw’d by goblins in the night;
Insulted on, revil’d, and jeer’d,
With rude invasion of his beard;
And when your sex was foully scandal’d,
As foully by the rabble handled;
Attack’d by despicable foes,
And drub’d with mean and vulgar blows;
And, after all, to be debarr’d
So much as standing on his guard;
When horses, being spurr’d and prick’d,
Have leave to kick for being kick’d?
Or why should you, whose mother-wits
Are furnish’d with all perquisites,
That with your breeding-teeth begin,
And nursing babies, that lie in,
B’ allow’d to put all tricks upon
Our cully sex, and we use none?
We, who have nothing but frail vows
Against your stratagems t’ oppose;
Or oaths more feeble than your own,
By which we are no less put down?
You wound, like Parthians, while you fly,
And kill with a retreating eye;214
Retire the more, the more we press,
To draw us into ambushes.
As pirates all false colours wear
T’ entrap th’ unwary mariner,
So women, to surprise us, spread
The borrow’d flags of white and red;
Display ’em thicker on their cheeks
Than their old grandmothers, the Picts;
And raise more devils with their looks,
Than conjurer’s less subtle books;
Lay trains of amorous intrigues,
In tow’rs, and curls, and periwigs,
With greater art and cunning rear’d,
Than Philip Nye’s thanksgiving beard,215
Prepost’rously t’ entice, and gain
Those to adore ’em they disdain;
And only draw ’em in to clog
With idle names a catalogue.
A lover is, the more he’s brave,
T’ his mistress but the more a slave,
And whatsoever she commands,
Becomes a favour from her hands;
Which he’s oblig’d t’ obey, and must,
Whether it be unjust or just.
Then when he is compell’d by her
T’ adventures he would else forbear,
Who with his honour can withstand,
Since force is greater than command?
And when necessity ’s obey’d,
Nothing can be unjust or bad
And therefore when the mighty pow’rs
Of love, our great ally and yours,
Join’d forces not to be withstood
By frail enamour’d flesh and blood,
All I have done, unjust or ill,
Was in obedience to your will;
And all the blame that can be due,
Falls to your cruelty, and you.
Nor are those scandals I confest,
Against my will and interest,
More than is daily done of course
By all men, when they’re under force;
When some, upon the rack, confess
What th’ hangman and their prompters please;
But are no sooner out of pain,
Than they deny it all again.
But when the devil turns confessor,
Truth is a crime he takes no pleasure
To hear, or pardon, like the founder
Of liars, whom they all claim under;
And therefore when I told him none,
I think it was the wiser done.
Nor am I without precedent,
The first that on th’ adventure went:
All mankind ever did of course,
And daily dues the same, or worse.
For what romance can show a lover,
That had a lady to recover,
And did not steer a nearer course,
To fall aboard in his amours?
And what at first was held a crime,
Has turn’d to honourable in time.
To what a height did infant Rome,216
By ravishing of women, come!
When men upon their spouses seiz’d,
And freely marry’d where they pleas’d,
They ne’er forswore themselves, nor ly’d,
Nor, in the mind they were in, dy’d;
Nor took the pains t’ address and sue,
Nor play’d the masquerade to woo:
Disdain’d to stay for friends’ consents;
Nor juggled about settlements;
Did need no licence, nor no priest,
Nor friends, nor kindred, to assist;
Nor lawyers, to join land and money
In th’ holy state of matrimony,
Before they settled hands and hearts,
Till alimony or death them parts:217
Nor would endure to stay until
Th’ had got the very bride’s good will;
But took a wise and shorter course
To win the ladies, downright force;
And justly made ’em pris’ners then,
As they have, often since, us men,
With acting plays, and dancing jigs,
The luckiest of all love’s intrigues;
And when they had them at their pleasure,
Then talk’d of love and flames at leisure;
For after matrimony’s over,
He that holds out but half a lover,
Deserves for ev’ry minute more
Than half a year of love before;
For which the dames, in contemplation
Of that best way of application,
Prov’d nobler wives than e’er were known
By suit or treaty to be won;
And such as all posterity
Cou’d never equal, nor come nigh.
For women first were made for men,
Not men for them.—It follows, then,
That men have right to ev’ry one,
And they no freedom of their own:
And therefore men have pow’r to choose,
But they no charter to refuse.
Hence ’tis apparent that, what course
Soe’er we take to your amours,
Though by the indirectest way,
’Tis no injustice, nor foul play;
And that you ought to take that course,
As we take you, for better or worse;
And gratefully submit to those
Who you, before another, chose.
For why should ev’ry savage beast
Exceed his great lord’s interest?
Have freer pow’r than he in grace,
And nature, o’er the creature has?
Because the laws he since has made
Have cut off all the pow’r he had;
Retrench’d the absolute dominion
That nature gave him over women;
When all his pow’r will not extend
One law of nature to suspend;
And but to offer to repeal
The smallest clause, is to rebel.
This, if men rightly understood
Their privilege, they would make good;
And not, like sots, permit their wives
T’ encroach on their prerogatives;
For which sin they deserve to be
Kept as they are, in slavery:
And this some precious gifted teachers,
Unrev’rently reputed leachers,
And disobey’d in making love,
Have vow’d to all the world to prove,
And make ye suffer, as you ought,
For that uncharitable fau’t.
But I forget myself, and rove
Beyond th’ instructions of my love.
Forgive me (Fair) and only blame
Th’ extravagancy of my flame,
Since ’tis too much at once to show
Excess of love and temper too.
All I have said that’s bad and true,
Was never meant to aim at you,
Who have so sov’reign a control
O’er that poor slave of yours, my soul,
That, rather than to forfeit you,
Has ventur’d loss of heaven too;
Both with an equal pow’r possest,
To render all that serve you blest;
But none like him, who’s destin’d either
To have, or lose you, both together;
And if you’ll but this fault release
(For so it must
