Is her continual practice; does her best
To tear opinion even out of the breast
Of dearest friends, and (which is worse than vile)
Sticks jealousy in wedlock; her own child
Scapes not the showers of envy. To repeat
The monstrous fashions, how, were alive to eat
Dear reputation. Would to God she were
But half so loath to act vice, as to hear
My mild reproof. Lived Mantuan now again,
(That female mastix) to limn with his pen
This she Chimaera, that hath eyes of fire
Burning with anger (anger feeds desire),
Tongued like the night-crow, whose ill-boding cries
Give out for nothing but new injuries;
Her breath like to the juice in Tenarus,
That blasts the springs, though ne'er so prosperous;
Her hands, I know not how, used more to spill
The food of others, than herself to fill;
But oh! her mind, that Orcus, which includes
Legions of mischief, countless multitudes.
Of formless curses, projects unmade up,
Abuses yet unfashioned, thoughts corrupt,
Misshapen cavils, palpable untroths,
Inevitable errors, self-accusing loaths,-
These, like those atoms swarming in the sun,
Throng in her bosom for creation.
I blush to give her half her due; yet say,
No poison's half so bad as Julia.
A TALE OF A CITIZEN AND HIS WIFE.
I SING no harm, good sooth, to any wight,
To lord, or fool,1 cuckold, beggar or knight,
To peace-teaching lawyer, proctor, or brave
Reformed or reduced captain, knave,
Officer, juggler,2 or justice of peace,
Juror or judge; I touch no fat sow's grease;
I am no libeller, nor will be any,
But (like a true man) say there are too many:
I fear not ore tenus, for my tale
Nor count nor counsellor will look red or pale.3
A citizen and his wife the other day,
Both riding on one horse, upon the way
I overtook; the wench a pretty peat,
And (by her eye) well fitting for the feat;
I saw the lecherous citizen turn back
His head, and on his wife's lip steal a smack,
Whence apprehending that the man was kind,
Riding before to kiss his wife behind,
To get acquaintance with him I began
To sort discourse fit for so fine a man;
I asked the number of the plaguing bill,4
Asked if the custom-farmers held out still,
1 to fool, 1669. 2 judge, ibid. 3 will red or pale, ibid. 4 plaguy bill, ibid.
Of the Virginian plot, and whether Ward
The traffic of the island1 seas had marred;
Whether the Britain Bourse did fill apace,
And likely were to give th' Exchange disgrace;
Of new-built Aldgate, and the Moorfield crosses;
Of store of bankrupts and poor merchants' losses,
I urged him to speak; but he (as mute
As an old courtier worn to his last suit)
Replies with only yeas and nays; at last
(To fit his element) my theme I cast
On tradesmen's gains; that set his tongue agoing,
"Alas, good Sir" (quoth he) "there is no doing
In court nor city now" she smiled and I,
And (in my conscience) both gave him the lie
In one met thought. But he went on apace,
And at the present time 2 with such a face
He railed, as frayed me; for he gave no praise
Το any but my Lord of Essex' days:
Called that the age of action: "True" (quoth I4). "There's now as great an itch of bravery,
And heat of taking up, but cold lay-down ;
For, put to push of pay, away they run:
Our only city trades of hope now are
Bawds, tavern-keepers, whores and scriveners; 5
The much of privileged kinsmen, and store
Of fresh protections make the rest all poor;
In the first state of their creation
Though many stoutly stand, yet proves not one
1 midland, 1669. 2 times, ibid. 3 those, ibid. 4 he, ibid.
5 whore and scrivener, ibid. 6 kingsmen, and the store, ibid.
A righteous paymaster." Thus ran he on
In a continued rage: so void of reason
Seemed his harsh talk, I sweat for fear of treason.
And (troth) how could I less? when in the prayer
For the protection of the wise Lord Mayor
And his wise brethren's Worships, when one prayeth,
He swore that none could say Amen with faith.
To get him 1 from what I glowed to hear,
(In happy time) an Angel did appear,
The bright sign of a loved and well-tried inn,
Where many citizens with their wives had been
Well-used and often; here I prayed him stay,
To take some due refreshment by the way;
Look, how he looked that hid the gold,2 his hope,
And at 3 return found nothing but a rope ;
So he at 4 me; refused and made away;
Though willing she pleaded a weary stay:
I found my miss, struck hands, and prayed him tell (To hold acquaintance still) where he did dwell; He barely named the street, promised the wine, But his kind wife gave me the very sign.
1 off him, 1669. 2 his gold, ibid. 3 at 's, ibid. 4 on, ibid. 5 day, ibid.
To make the doubt clear, that no woman's true,
Was it my fate to prove it strong in you?
Thought I but one had breathëd purest air,
And must she needs be false because she's fair?
Is it your beauty's mark, or of your youth,
Or your perfection, not to study truth?
Or think you heaven is deaf, or hath no eyes,
Or those it hath smile at your perjuries?
Are vows so cheap with women, or the matter
Whereof they are made, that they are writ in water,
And blown away with wind? Or doth their breath,
Both hot and cold, at once make life and death?
Who could have thought so many accents sweet
Formed into words, so many sighs should meet
As from our hearts, so many oaths, and tears
Sprinkled among (all sweeter1 by our fears
And the divine impression of stolen kisses,
That sealed the rest), should now prove empty blisses?
Did you draw bonds to forfeit? sign to break?
Or must we read you quite from what you speak,
And find the truth out the wrong way? or must
He first desire you false, would wish you just?
Oh, I profane: though most of women be
This kind of beast, my thought2 shall éxcept thee,
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