John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series
Page 114
Run over all the Strings, and Kiss the Case;
And make Love to it, in the Master’s place.
A certain Lady once, of high Degree, 505
To Janus Vow’d, and Vesta’s Deity,
That Pollio might, in Singing, win the Prize;
Pollio the Dear, the Darling of her Eyes:
She Pray’d, and Brib’d; what cou’d she more have done
For a Sick Husband, or an onely Son? 510
With her Face veil’d, and heaving up her hands,
The shameless Supplaint at the Altar stands;
The Forms of Pray’r she solemnly pursues;
And, pale with Fear, the offer’d Entrails views.
Answer, ye Pow’rs: For, if you heard her Vow, 515
Your Godships, sure, had little else to do.
This is not all; for Actors they implore:
An Impudence unknown to Heav’n before.
Th’ Aruspex, tir’d with this Religious Rout,
Is forc’d to stand so long, he gets the Gout. 520
But suffer not thy Wife abroad to roam,
If she loves Singing, let her Sing at home;
Not strut in Streets, with Amazonian pace;
For that’s to Cuckold thee, before thy Face.
Their endless Itch of News comes next in play; 525
They vent their own; and hear what others say.
Know what in Thrace, or what in France is done;
Th’ Intrigues betwixt the Stepdam and the Son.
Tell who Loves who, what Favours some partake:
And who is Jilted for another’s sake. 530
What pregnant Widow, in what month was made;
How oft she did, and doing, what she said.
She, first, beholds the raging Comet rise:
Knows whom it threatens, and what Lands destroys.
Still for the newest News she lies in wait; 535
And takes Reports, just ent’ring at the Gate.
Wrecks, Floods, and Fires; what-ever she can meet,
She spreads; and is the Fame of every Street.
This is a Grievance; but the next is worse;
A very Judgment, and her Neighbours Curse: 540
For, if their barking Dog disturb her ease,
No Pray’r can bind her, no Excuse appease.
Th’ unmanner’d Malefactor is Arraign’d;
But first the Master, who the Curr Maintain’d,
Must feel the scourge: By Night she leaves her Bed; 545
By Night her Bathing Equipage is led,
That Marching Armies a less noise create;
She moves in Tumult, and she Sweats in State.
Mean while, her Guests their Appetites must keep;
Some gape for Hunger, and some gasp for Sleep. 550
At length she comes, all flush’d, but e’re she sup,
Swallows a swinging Preparation-Cup;
And then, to clear her Stomach, spews it up.
The Deluge-Vomit all the Floor o’reflows,
And the sour savour nauseates every Nose. 555
She Drinks again; again she spews a Lake;
Her wretched Husband sees, and dares not speak:
But mutters many a Curse, against his Wife;
And Damns himself, for chusing such a Life.
But of all Plagues, the greatest is untold; 560
The Book-Learn’d Wife in Greek and Latin bold.
The Critick-Dame, who at her Table sits:
Homer and Virgil quotes, and weighs their Wits;
And pities Didoes Agonizing Fits.
She has so far th’ ascendant of the Board, 565
The Prating Pedant puts not in one Word:
The Man of Law is Non-plust, in his Sute;
Nay every other Female Tongue is mute.
Hammers, and beating Anvils, you wou’d swear,
And Vulcan with his whole Militia there. 570
Tabours and Trumpets cease; for she alone
Is able to Redeem the lab’ring Moon.
Ev’n Wit’s a burthen, when it talks too long:
But she, who has no Continence of Tongue,
Should walk in Breeches, and shou’d wear a Beard; 575
And mix among the Philosophick Herd.
O what a midnight Curse has he, whose side
Is pester’d with a Mood and Figure Bride!
Let mine, ye Gods, (if such must be my Fate)
No Logick Learn, nor History Translate; 580
But rather be a quiet, humble Fool:
I hate a Wife, to whom I go to School,
Who climbs the Grammar-Tree, distinctly knows
Where Noun, and Verb, and Participle grows
Corrects her Country Neighbour; and, a Bed, 585
For breaking Priscian’s, breaks her Husband’s Head.
The Gawdy Gossip, when she’s set agog,
In Jewels drest, and at each Ear a Bob,
Goes flaunting out, and, in her trim of Pride,
Thinks all she says or does, is justifi’d. 590
When Poor, she’s scarce a tollerable Evil;
But Rich, and Fine, a Wife’s a very Devil.
She duely, once a Month, renews her Face;
Mean time, it lies in Dawb, and hid in Grease;
Those are the Husband’s Nights; she craves her due, 595
He takes fat Kisses, and is stuck in Glue.
But, to the Lov’d Adult’rer when she steers,
Fresh from the Bath, in brightness she appears:
For him the Rich Arabia sweats her Gum;
And precious Oyls from distant Indies come: 600
How Haggardly so e’re she looks at home.
Th’ Eclipse then vanishes; and all her Face
Is open’d, and restor’d to ev’ry Grace,
The Crust remov’d, her Cheeks as smooth as Silk,
Are polish’d with a wash of Asses Milk; 605
And, shou’d she to the farthest North be sent,
A train of these attend her Banishment.
But, hadst thou seen her Plaistred up before,
’Twas so unlike a Face, it seem’d a Sore.
’Tis worth our while to know what all the day 610
They do, and how they pass their time away,
For, if o’re-night the Husband has been slack,
Or counterfeited Sleep, and turn’d his Back,
Next day, be sure, the Servants go to wrack.
The Chamber-Maid and Dresser, are call’d Whores; 615
The Page is stript, and beaten out of Doors
The whole House suffers for the Master’s Crime:
And he himself is warn’d to wake another time.
She hires Tormentors, by the Year; she Treats
Her Visitours, and talks; but still she beats, 620
Beats while she Paints her Face, surveys her Gown,
Casts up the days Account, and still beats on:
Tir’d out, at length, with an outrageous Tone,
She bids ‘em, in the Devil’s Name, begone.
Compar’d with such a Proud, Insulting Dame, 625
Sicilian Tyrants may renounce their Name.
For, if she hasts abroad to take the Ayr;
Or goes to Isis Church (the Bawdy-House of Pray’r)
She hurries all her Handmaids to the Task;
Her Head, alone, will twenty Dressers ask. 630
Psecas, the chief, with Breast and Shoulders bare,
Trembling, considers every Sacred Hair;
If any Stragler from his Rank be found,
A pinch must, for the Mortal Sin, compound.
Psecas is not in Fault: But, in the Glass, 635
The Dame’s Offended at her own ill Face.
That Maid is Banish’d; and another Girl
More dextrous, manages the Comb, and Curl;
The rest are summon’d, on a point so nice;
And first, the Grave Old Woman gives Advice. 640
The next is call’d, and so the turn goes round,
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As each for Age, or Wisdom, is Renown’d:
Such Counsel, such delib’rate care they take,
As if her Life and Honour lay at stake:
With Curls on Curls, they build her Head before 645
And mount it with a Formidable Tow’r.
A Gyantess she seems; but, look behind,
And then she dwindles to the Pigmy kind.
Duck-leg’d, short-wasted, such a Dwarf she is,
That she must rise on Tip-toes for a Kiss. 650
Mean while, her Husband’s whole Estate is spent;
He may go bare, while she receives his Rent.
She minds him not; she lives not as a Wife,
But like a Bawling Neighbour, full of Strife:
Near him, in this alone, that she extends 655
Her Hate to all his Servants and his Friends.
Bellona’s Priests, an Eunuch at their Head,
About the Streets a mad Procession lead;
The Venerable Guelding, large, and high,
O’relooks the Herd of his inferiour Fry. 660
His awkward Clergy-Men about him prance;
And beat the Timbrels to their Mystick Dance.
Guiltless of Testicles, they tear their Throats,
And squeak, in Treble, their Unmanly Notes.
Mean while, his Cheeks the Myter’d Prophet swells, 665
And Dire Presages of the Year foretels
Unless with Eggs (his Priestly hire) they hast
To Expiate, and avert th’ Autumnal blast.
And add beside a murrey-colour’d Vest,
Which, in their places, may receive the Pest: 670
And, thrown into the Flood, their Crimes may bear,
To purge th’ unlucky Omens of the Year.
Th’ Astonisht Matrons pay, before the rest;
That Sex is still obnoxious to the Priest.
Through yce they beat, and plunge into the Stream, 675
If so the God has warn’d ‘em in a Dream.
Weak in their Limbs, but in Devotion strong,
On their bare Hands and Feet they crawl along
A whole Fields length, the Laughter of the Throng.
Should Io (Io’s Priest I mean) Command 680
A Pilgrimage to Meroe’s burning Sand,
Through Desarts they wou’d seek the secret Spring;
And Holy Water, for Lustration, bring.
How can they pay their Priests too much respect,
Who Trade with Heav’n, and Earthly Gains neglect? 685
With him, Domestick Gods Discourse by Night;
By day, attended by his Quire in white,
The Bald-pate Tribe runs madding through the Street,
And Smile to see with how much ease they Cheat.
The Ghostly Syre forgives the Wife’s Delights, 690
Who Sins, through Frailty, on forbidden Nights;
And Tempts her Husband in the Holy Time,
When Carnal Pleasure is a Mortal Crime.
The Sweating Image shakes its Head; but he
With Mumbled Pray’rs Attones the Deity. 695
The Pious Priesthood the Fat Goose receive,
And they once Brib’d the Godhead must forgive.
No sooner these remove, but full of Fear,
A Gypsie Jewess whispers in your Ear,
And begs an Alms: An High-priest’s Daughter she, 700
Vers’d in their Talmud, and Divinity;
And Prophesies beneath a shady Tree.
Her Goods a Basket, and old Hay her Bed,
She strouls, and, Telling Fortunes, gains her Bread:
Farthings and some small Monys, are her Fees; 705
Yet she Interprets all your Dreams for these.
Foretels th’ Estate, when the Rich Unckle Dies,
And sees a Sweet-heart in the Sacrifice.
Such Toys, a Pidgeons Entrails can disclose:
Which yet th’ Armenian Augur far outgoes: 710
In Dogs, a Victim more obscene, he rakes;
And Murder’d Infants, for Inspection, takes:
For Gain, his Impious Practice he pursues;
For Gain, will his Accomplices accuse.
More Credit, yet, is to Chaldeans giv’n; 715
What they foretell, is deem’d the Voice of Heav’n.
Their Answers, as from Hammon’s Altar, come;
Since now the Delphian Oracles are dumb.
And Mankind, ignorant of future Fate,
Believes what fond Astrologers relate. 720
Of these the most in vogue is he, who sent
Beyond Seas, is return’d from Banishment,
His Art who to Aspiring Otho sold;
And sure Succession to the Crown foretold.
For his Esteem is in his Exile plac’d; 725
The more Believ’d, the more he was Disgrac’d.
No Astrologick Wizard Honour gains,
Who has not oft been Banisht, or in Chains.
He gets Renown, who, to the Halter near,
But narrowly escapes, and buys it dear. 730
From him your Wife enquires the Planets Will,
When the black Jaundies shall her Mother Kill:
Her Sister’s and her Unckle’s end, wou’d know:
But, first, consults his Art, when you shall go.
And, what’s the greatest Gift that Heav’n can give, 735
If, after her, th’ Adulterer shall live.
She neither knows nor cares to know the rest;
If Mars and Saturn shall the World infest;
Or Jove and Venus with their Friendly Rays,
Will interpose, and bring us better days. 740
Beware the Woman, too, and shun her Sight,
Who in these Studies does her self Delight.
By whom a greasie Almanack is born,
With often handling, like chaft Amber, worn:
Not now consulting, but consulted, she 745
Of the Twelve Houses, and their Lords, is free.
She, if the Scheme a fatal Journey show,
Stays safe at Home, but lets her Husband go.
If but a Mile she Travel out of Town,
The Planetary Hour must first be known, 750
And lucky moment; if her Eye but akes
Or itches, its Decumbiture she takes.
No Nourishment receives in her Disease,
But what the Stars and Ptolomy shall please.
The middle sort, who have not much to spare, 755
To Chiromancers cheaper Art repair,
Who clap the pretty Palm, to make the Lines more fair.
But the Rich Matron, who has more to give,
Her Answers from the Brachman will receive:
Skill’d in the Globe and Sphere, he Gravely stands, 760
And, with his Compass, measures Seas and Lands.
The Poorest of the Sex have still an Itch
To know their Fortunes, equal to the Rich.
The Dairy-Maid enquires, if she shall take
The trusty Taylor, and the Cook forsake. 765
Yet these, tho Poor, the Pain of Child-bed bear;
And, without Nurses, their own Infants rear:
You seldom hear of the Rich Mantle spread
For the Babe born in the great Lady’s Bed.
Such is the Pow’r of Herbs; such Arts they use 770
To make them Barren, or their Fruit to lose.
But thou, whatever Slops she will have bought,
Be thankful, and supply the deadly Draught:
Help her to make Manslaughter; let her bleed,
And never want for Savin at her need. 775
For, if she holds till her nine Months be run,
Thou may’st be Father to an Æthiop’s Son.
A Boy, who ready gotten to thy hands,
By Law is to Inherit all thy Lands:
One of that hue, that shou’d he cross the way, 780
His Omen wou’d discolour all the day.
I pass the Foun
dling by, a Race unknown,
At Doors expos’d, whom Matrons make their own:
And into Noble Families advance
A Nameless Issue, the blind work of Chance. 785
Indulgent Fortune does her Care employ,
And, smiling, broods upon the Naked Boy:
Her Garment spreads, and laps him in the Fold,
And covers, with her Wings, from nightly Cold:
Gives him her Blessing; puts him in a way; 790
Sets up the Farce, and laughs at her own Play.
Him she promotes; she favours him alone,
And makes Provision for him, as her own.
The craving Wife the force of Magick tries,
And Philters for th’ unable Husband buys: 795
The Potion works not on the part design’d;
But turns his Brain, and stupifies his Mind.
The sotted Moon-Calf gapes, and staring on,
Sees his own Business by another done:
A long Oblivion, a benumning Frost, 800
Constrains his Head; and Yesterday is lost:
Some nimbler Juice would make him foam, and rave,
Like that Cæsonia to her Caius gave:
Who, plucking from the Forehead of the Fole
His Mother’s Love, infus’d it in the Bowl: 805
The boiling Blood ran hissing in his Veins,
Till the mad Vapour mounted to his Brains.
The Thund’rer was not half so much on Fire,
When Juno’s Girdle kindled his Desire.
What Woman will not use the Poys’ning Trade, 810
When Cæsar’s Wife the Precedent has made?
Let Agrippina’s Mushroom be forgot,
Giv’n to a Slav’ring, Old, unuseful Sot;
That only clos’d the driveling Dotard’s Eyes,
And sent his Godhead downward to the Skies. 815
But this fierce Potion calls for Fire and Sword;
Nor spares the Commons, when it strikes the Lord:
So many Mischiefs were in one combin’d;
So much one single Poys’ner cost Mankind.
If Stepdames seek their Sons in Law to kill, 820
’Tis Venial Trespass; let them have their Will:
But let the Child, entrusted to the Care
Of his own Mother, of her Bread beware:
Beware the Food she reaches with her Hand;
The Morsel is intended for thy Land. 825
Thy Tutour be thy Taster, e’re thou Eat;
There’s Poyson in thy Drink, and in thy Meat.
You think this feign’d; the Satyr in a Rage
Struts in the Buskins of the Tragick Stage,
Forgets his Bus’ness is to Laugh and Bite; 830
And will, of Deaths, and dire Revenges Write.
Wou’d it were all a Fable, that you Read;
But Drymon’s Wife pleads Guilty to the Deed.
I (she confesses,) in the Fact was caught;