I’ll pay down all that vow, and more,
Which you commanded, and I swore,
And expiate upon my skin
Th’ arrears in full of all my sin:
For ’tis but just that I should pay
Th’ accruing penance for delay,
Which shall be done, until it move
Your equal pity and your love.
The Knight perusing this Epistle,
Believ’d h’ had brought her to his whistle,
And read it like a jocund lover,
With great applause t’ himself, twice over;
Subscrib’d his name, but at a fit
And humble distance, to his wit;
And dated it with wondrous art,
Giv’n from the bottom of his heart;
Then seal’d it with his coat of love,
A smoking fagot—and above,
Upon a scroll—I burn, and weep;
And near it—For her Ladyship,
Of all her sex most excellent,
These to her gentle hands present.
Then gave it to his faithful Squire,
With lessons how t’ observe and eye her.
She first consider’d which was better,
To send it back, or burn the letter:
But guessing that it might import,
Though nothing else, at least her sport,
She open’d it, and read it out,
With many a smile and leering flout;
Resolv’d to answer it in kind,
And thus perform’d what she design’d.
The Lady’s Answer to the Knight
That you’re a beast, and turn’d to grass,
Is no strange news, nor ever was;
At least to me, who once, you know,
Did from the pound replevin you,
When both your sword and spurs were won
In combat by an Amazon:
That sword, that did (like Fate) determine
Th’ inevitable death of vermin,
And never dealt its furious blows,
But cut the throats of pigs and cows,
By Trulla was, in single fight,
Disarm’d and wrested from its Knight;
Your heels degraded of your spurs,
And in the stocks close prisoners;
Where still they’d lain, in base restraint,
If I, in pity of your complaint,
Had not, on honourable conditions,
Releas’d ’em from the worst of prisons;
And what return that favour met
You cannot (though you would) forget;
When, being free, you strove t’ evade
The oaths you had in prison made;
Forswore yourself, and first deny’d it,
But after own’d and justify’d it;
And when y’ had falsely broke one vow,
Absolv’d yourself by breaking two:
For while you sneakingly submit,
And beg for pardon at our feet,
Discourag’d by your guilty fears,
To hope for quarter for your ears,
And doubting ’twas in vain to sue,
You claim us boldly as your due;
Declare that treachery and force,
To deal with us, is th’ only course;
We have no title nor pretence
To body, soul, or conscience;
But ought to fall to that man’s share
That claims us for his proper ware.
These are the motives which, t’ induce
Or fright us into love, you use;
A pretty new way of gallanting,
Between soliciting and ranting;
Like sturdy beggars, that entreat
For charity at once, and threat!
But since you undertake to prove
Your own propriety in love,
As if we were but lawful prize
In war between two enemies,
Or forfeitures, which ev’ry lover,
That would but sue for, might recover,
It is not hard to understand
The myst’ry of this bold demand,
That cannot at our persons aim,
But something capable of claim.
’Tis not those paltry counterfeit
French stones, which in our eyes you set,
But our right diamonds, that inspire
And set your am’rous hearts on fire:
Nor can those false St. Martin’s beads,
Which on our lips you lay for reds,
And make us wear, like Indian dames,
Add fuel to your scorching flames,
But those true rubies of the rock,
Which in our cabinets we lock.
’Tis not those orient pearls, our teeth,
That you are so transported with;
But those we wear about our necks,
Produce those amorous effects.
Nor is ’t those threads of gold, our hair,
The periwigs you make us wear;
But those bright guineas in our chests,
That light the wild-fire in your breasts.
These love-tricks I’ve been vers’d in so,
That all their sly intrigues I know,
And can unriddle, by their tones,
Their mystic cabals and jargons;
Can tell what passions, by their sounds,
Pine for the beauties of my grounds;
What raptures fond and amorous
O’ th’ charms and graces of my house;
What ecstasy and scorching flame
Burns for my money in my name;
What from th’ unnatural desire
To beasts and cattle takes its fire;
What tender sigh, and trickling tear,
Longs for a thousand pounds a year;
And languishing transports are fond
Of statute, mortgage, bill, and bond.
These are th’ attracts which most men fall
Enamour’d, at first sight, withal;
To these th’ address with serenades,
And court with balls and masquerades;
And yet, for all the yearning pain
Y’ have suffer’d for their loves in vain,
I fear they’ll prove so nice and coy
To have, and t’ hold, and to enjoy,
That all your oaths and labour lost,
They’ll ne’er turn ladies of the post.
This is not meant to disapprove
Your judgment in your choice of love;
Which is so wise the greatest part
Of mankind study ’t as an art;
For love should, like a deodand,
Still fall to th’ owner of the land;
And where there’s substance for its ground,
Cannot but be more firm and sound
Than that which has the slightest basis
Of airy virtue, wit, and graces;
Which is of such thin subtlety,
It steals and creeps in at the eye,
And, as it can’t endure to stay,
Steals out again as nice a way.
But love, that its extraction owns
From solid gold and precious stones,
Must, like its shining parents, prove
As solid, and as glorious love.
Hence ’tis you have no way t’ express
Our charms and graces but by these:
For what are lips, and eyes, and teeth,
Which beauty invades and conquers with,
But rubies, pearls, and diamonds,
With which a philtre love commands?
This is the way all parents prove,
In managing their children’s love,
That force ’em t’ intermarry and wed,
As if th’ were burying of the dead;
Cast earth to earth, as in the grave,
To join in wedlock all they have,
And, when the settlement’s in force,
Take all the rest for better or worse:
For money has a power above
The stars and fate to manage love,
Whose arrows, learned poets hold,
That never miss, are tipp’d with gold.218
And though some say the parents’ claims
To make love in their children’s names,
Who many times at once provide
The nurse, the husband, and the bride,
Feel darts and charms, attracts and flames,
And woo and contract in their names,
And as they christen, use to marry ’em,
And, like their gossips, answer for ’em;
Is not to give in matrimony,
But sell and prostitute for money;
’Tis better than their own betrothing,
Who often do ’t for worse than nothing;
And when th’
