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Love Of Fame, The Universal Passion. Satire VI. On Women.

by Edward Young

Inscribed to the Right Honourable the Lady Elizabeth Germain.

Interdum tamen et tollit comoedia vocem.

HOR.

I sought a patroness, but sought in vain.

Apollo whisper'd in my ear--"Germain."--

I know her not.--"Your reason's somewhat odd;

Who knows his patron, now?" replied the god.

"Men write, to me, and to the world, unknown;

Then steal great names, to shield them from the town.

Detected worth, like beauty disarray'd,

To covert flies, of praise itself afraid:

Should she refuse to patronize your lays,

In vengeance write a volume in her praise.

Nor think it hard so great a length to run;

When such the theme, 'twill easily be done."

Ye fair! to draw your excellence at length,

Exceeds the narrow bounds of human strength;

You, here, in miniature your picture see;

Nor hope from Zincks more justice than from me.

My portraits grace your mind, as his your side;

His portraits will inflame, mine quench, your pride.

He's dear, you frugal; choose my cheaper lay;

And be your reformation all my pay.

Lavinia is polite, but not profane;

To church as constant as to Drury Lane.

She decently, in form, pays heaven its due;

And makes a civil visit to her pew.

Her lifted fan, to give a solemn air,

Conceals her face, which passes for a prayer:

Curtsies to curtsies, then, with grace, succeed;

Not one the fair omits, but at the creed.

Or if she joins the service, 'tis to speak;

Thro' dreadful silence the pent heart might break;

Untaught to bear it, women talk away

To God himself, and fondly think they pray.

But sweet their accent, and their air refin'd;

For they're before their Maker--and mankind:

When ladies once are proud of praying well,

Satan himself will toll the parish bell.

Acquainted with the world, and quite well bred,

Drusa receives her visitants in bed;

But, chaste as ice, this Vesta, to defy

The very blackest tongue of calumny,

When from the sheets her lovely form she lifts,

She begs you just would turn you, while she shifts.

Those charms are greatest which decline the sight,

That makes the banquet poignant and polite.

There is no woman, where there's no reserve;

And 'tis on plenty your poor lovers starve.

But with a modern fair, meridian merit

Is a fierce thing, they call a nymph of spirit.

Mark well the rollings of her flaming eye;

And tread on tiptoe, if you dare draw nigh.

"Or if you take a lion by the beard,(15)

Or dare defy the fell Hyrcanian pard,

Or arm'd rhinoceros, or rough Russian bear,"

First make your will, and then converse with her.

This lady glories in profuse expense;

And thinks distraction is magnificence.

To beggar her gallant, is some delight;

To be more fatal still, is exquisite;

Had ever nymph such reason to be glad?

In duel fell two lovers; one run mad.

Her foes their honest execrations pour;

Her lovers only should detest her more.

Flavia is constant to her old gallant,

And generously supports him in his want;

But marriage is a fetter, is a snare,

A hell, no lady so polite can bear.

She's faithful, she's observant, and with pains

Her angel brood of bastards she maintains.

Nor least advantage has the fair to plead,

But that of guilt, above the marriage-bed.

Amasia hates a prude, and scorns restraint;

Whate'er she is, she'll not appear a saint:

Her soul superior flies formality;

So gay her air, her conduct is so free,

Some might suspect the nymph not over good--

Nor would they be mistaken, if they should.

Unmarried Abra puts on formal airs;

Her cushion's threadbare with her constant prayers.

Her only grief is, that she cannot be

At once engag'd in prayer and charity.

And this, to do her justice, must be said,

"Who would not think that Abra was a maid?"

Some ladies are too beauteous to be wed;

For where's the man that's worthy of their bed?

If no disease reduce her pride before,

Lavinia will be ravish'd at threescore.

Then she submits to venture in the dark;

And nothing now is wanting--but her spark.

Lucia thinks happiness consists in state;

She weds an idiot, but she eats in plate.

The goods of fortune, which her soul possess,

Are but the ground of unmade happiness;

The rude material: wisdom add to this,

Wisdom, the sole artificer of bliss;

She from herself, if so compell'd by need,

Of thin content can draw the subtle thread;

But (no detraction to her sacred skill)

If she can work in gold, 'tis better still.

If Tullia had been blest with half her sense,

None could too much admire her excellence:

But since she can make error shine so bright,

She thinks it vulgar to defend the right.

With understanding she is quite o'errun;

And by too great accomplishments undone:

With skill she vibrates her eternal tongue,

For ever most divinely in the wrong.

Naked in nothing should a woman be;

But veil her very wit with modesty:

Let man discover, let not her display,

But yield her charms of mind with sweet delay.

For pleasure form'd, perversely some believe,

To make themselves important, men must grieve.

Lesbia the fair, to fire her jealous lord,

Pretends, the fop she laughs at, is ador'd.

In vain she's proud of secret innocence;

The fact she fains were scarce a worse offence.

Mira, endow'd with every charm to bless,

Has no design, but on her husband's peace:

He lov'd her much; and greatly was he mov'd

At small inquietudes in her he lov'd.

"How charming this!"--The pleasure lasted long;

Now every day the fits come thick and strong:

At last he found the charmer only feign'd;

And was diverted when he should be pain'd.

What greater vengeance had the gods in store?

How tedious life, now she can plague no more!

She tries a thousand arts; but none succeed:

She's forc'd a fever to procure indeed:

Thus strictly prov'd this virtuous, loving wife,

Her husband's pain was dearer than her life.

Anxious Melania rises to my view,

Who never thinks her lover pays his due:

Visit, present, treat, flatter, and adore;

Her majesty, to-morrow, calls for more.

His wounded ears complaints eternal fill,

As unoil'd hinges, querulously shrill.

"You went last night with Celia to the ball."

You prove it false. "Not go! that's worst of all."

Nothing can please her, nothing not inflame;

And arrant contradictions are the same.

Her lover must be sad, to please her spleen;

His mirth is an inexpiable sin:

For of all rivals that can pain her breast,

There's one, that wounds far deeper than the rest;

To wreck her quiet, the most dreadful shelf

Is if her lover dares enjoy himself.

And this, because she's exquisitely fair:

Should I dispute her beauty, how she'd stare!

How would Melania be surpris'd to hear

She's quite deform'd! And yet the case is clear;

What's female beauty, but an air divine,

Thro' which the mind's all gentle graces shine?

They, like the sun, irradiate all between;

The body charms because the soul is seen.

Hence, men are often captives of a face,

They know not why, of no peculiar grace:

Some forms, tho' bright, no mortal man can bear;

Some, none resist, tho' not exceeding fair.

Aspasia's highly born, and nicely bred,

Of taste refin'd, in life and manners read;

Yet reaps no fruit from her superior sense,

But to be teaz'd by her own excellence.

"Folks are so awkward! things so unpolite!"

She's elegantly pain'd from morn till night.

Her delicacy's shock'd where'er she goes;

Each creature's imperfections are her woes.

Heaven by its favour has the fair distrest,

And pour'd such blessings--that she can't be blest.

Ah! why so vain, though blooming in thy spring,

Thou shining, frail, ador'd, and wretched thing?

Old age will come; disease may come before;

Fifteen is full as mortal as threescore.

Thy fortune, and thy charms, may soon decay:

But grant these fugitives prolong their stay,

Their basis totters, their foundation shakes;

Life, that supports them, in a moment breaks;

Then wrought into the soul let virtues shine;

The ground eternal, as the work divine.

Julia's a manager; she's born for rule;

And knows her wiser husband is a fool;

Assemblies holds, and spins the subtle thread

That guides the lover to his fair one's bed:

For difficult amours can smooth the way,

And tender letters dictate, or convey.

But if depriv'd of such important cares,

Her wisdom condescends to less affairs.

For her own breakfast she'll project a scheme,

Nor take her tea without a stratagem;

Presides o'er trifles with a serious face;

Important by the virtue of grimace.

Ladies supreme among amusements reign;

By nature born to soothe, and entertain.

Their prudence in a share of folly lies:

Why will they be so weak, as to be wise?

Syrena is for ever in extremes,

And with a vengeance she commends, or blames.

Conscious of her discernment, which is good,

She strains too much to make it understood.

Her judgment just, her sentence is too strong;

Because she's right, she's ever in the wrong.

Brunetta's wise in actions great, and rare;

But scorns on trifles to bestow her care.

Thus ev'ry hour Brunetta is to blame,

Because th' occasion is beneath her aim,

Think nought a trifle, though it small appear;

Small sands the mountain, moments make the year,

And trifles life. Your care to trifles give,

Or you may die, before you truly live.

Go breakfast with Alicia, there you'll see,

Simplex munditiis, to the last degree:

Unlac'd her stays, her night-gown is untied,

And what she has of head-dress is aside.

She drawls her words, and waddles in her pace;

Unwash'd her hands, and much besnuff'd her face.

A nail uncut, and head uncomb'd, she loves;

And would draw on jack-boots, as soon as gloves.

Gloves by Queen Bess's maidens might be miss'd;

Her blessed eyes ne'er saw a female fist.

Lovers, beware! to wound how can she fail

With scarlet finger, and long jetty nail?

For Harvey the first wit she cannot be,

Nor, cruel Richmond, the first toast for thee.

Since full each other station of renown,

Who would not be the greatest trapes in town?

Women were made to give our eyes delight;

A female sloven is an odious sight.

Fair Isabella is so fond of fame,

That her dear self is her eternal theme;

Through hopes of contradiction, oft she'll say,

"Methinks I look so wretchedly to-day!"

When most the world applauds you, most beware;

'Tis often less a blessing than a snare.

Distrust mankind; with your own heart confer;

And dread even there to find a flatterer.

The breath of others raises our renown;

Our own as surely blows the pageant down.

Take up no more than you by worth can claim,

Lest soon you prove a bankrupt in your fame.

But own I must, in this perverted age,

Who most deserve, can't always most engage.

So far is worth from making glory sure,

It often hinders what it should procure.

Whom praise we most? The virtuous, brave, and wise?

No; wretches, whom, in secret, we despise.

And who so blind, as not to see the cause?

No rivals rais'd by such discreet applause;

And yet, of credit it lays in a store,

By which our spleen may wound true worth the more.

Ladies there are who think one crime is all:

Can women, then, no way but backward fall?

So sweet is that one crime they don't pursue,

To pay its loss, they think all others few.

Who hold that crime so dear, must never claim

Of injur'd modesty the sacred name.

But Clio thus: "What! railing without end?

Mean task! how much more gen'rous to commend!"

Yes, to commend as you are wont to do,

My kind instructor, and example too.

"Daphnis," says Clio, "has a charming eye:

What pity 'tis her shoulder is awry!

Aspasia's shape indeed--but then her air--

The man has parts who finds destruction there.

Almeria's wit has something that's divine;

And wit's enough--how few in all things shine!

Selina serves her friends, relieves the poor--

Who was it said Selina's near threescore?

At Lucia's match I from my soul rejoice;

The world congratulates so wise a choice;

His lordship's rent-roll is exceeding great--

But mortgages will sap the best estate.

In Sherley's form might cherubims appear;

But then--she has a freckle on her ear."

Without a but, Hortensia she commends,

The first of women, and the best of friends;

Owns her in person, wit, fame, virtue, bright:

But how comes this to pass?--She died last night.

Thus nymphs commend, who yet at satire rail:

Indeed that's needless, if such praise prevail.

And whence such praise? Our virulence is thrown

On others' fame, thro' fondness for our own.

Of rank and riches proud, Cleora frowns;

For are not coronets akin to crowns?

Her greedy eye, and her sublime address,

The height of avarice and pride confess.

You seek perfections worthy of her rank;

Go, seek for her perfections at the bank.

By wealth unquench'd, by reason uncontrol'd,

For ever burns her sacred thirst of gold.

As fond of five-pence, as the veriest cit;

And quite as much detested as a wit.

Can gold calm passion, or make reason shine?

Can we dig peace, or wisdom, from the mine?

Wisdom to gold prefer; for 'tis much less

To make our fortune, than our happiness.

That happiness which great ones often see,

With rage and wonder, in a low degree;

Themselves unblest. The poor are only poor;

But what are they who droop amid their store?

Nothing is meaner than a wretch of state;

The happy only are the truly great.

Peasants enjoy like appetites with kings;

And those best satisfied with cheapest things.

Could both our Indies buy but one new sense,

Our envy would be due to large expense.

Since not, those pomps which to the great belong,

Are but poor arts to mark them from the throng.

See how they beg an alms of flattery!

They languish! oh support them with a lie!

A decent competence we fully taste;

It strikes our sense, and gives a constant feast:

More, we perceive by dint of thought alone;

The rich must labor to possess their own,

To feel their great abundance; and request

Their humble friends to help them to be blest;

To see their treasures, hear their glory told,

And aid the wretched impotence of gold.

But some, great souls! and touch'd with warmth divine,

Give gold a price, and teach its beams to shine.

All hoarded treasures they repute a load;

Nor think their wealth their own, till well bestow'd.

Grand reservoirs of public happiness,

Through secret streams diffusively they bless;

And, while their bounties glide conceal'd from view,

Relieve our wants, and spare our blushes too.

But satire is my task; and these destroy

Her gloomy province, and malignant joy.

Help me, ye misers! help me to complain,

And blast our common enemy, Germain:

But our invectives must despair success;

For next to praise, she values nothing less.

What picture's yonder, loosen'd from its frame?

Or is't Asturia? that affected dame.

The brightest forms, through affectation, fade

To strange new things, which nature never made.

Frown not, ye fair! so much your sex we prize,

We hate those arts that take you from our eyes.

In Albucinda's native grace is seen

What you, who labour at perfection, mean.

Short is the rule, and to be learnt with ease,

Retain your gentle selves, and you must please.

Here might I sing of Memmia's mincing mien,

And all the movements of the soft machine:

How two red lips affected zephyrs blow,

To cool the Bohea, and inflame the beau:

While one white finger, and a thumb, conspire

To lift the cup, and make the world admire.

Tea! how I tremble at thy fatal stream!

As Lethe, dreadful to the love of fame.

What devastations on thy banks are seen!

What shades of mighty names which once have been!

An hecatomb of characters supplies

Thy painted altars' daily sacrifice.

H----, P----, B----, aspers'd by thee, decay,

As grains of finest sugars melt away,

And recommend thee more to mortal taste:

Scandal's the sweet'ner of a female feast.

But this inhuman triumph shall decline,

And thy revolting naiads call for wine;

Spirits no longer shall serve under thee;

But reign in thy own cup, exploded tea!

Citronia's nose declares thy ruin nigh,

And who dares give Citronia's nose the lie?(16)

The ladies long at men of drink exclaim'd,

And what impair'd both health and virtue, blam'd;

At length, to rescue man, the generous lass

Stole from her consort the pernicious glass;

As glorious as the British queen renown'd,

Who suck'd the poison from her husband's wound.

Nor to the glass alone are nymphs inclin'd,

But every bolder vice of bold mankind.

O Juvenal! for thy severer rage!

To lash the ranker follies of our age.

Are there, among the females of our isle,

Such faults, at which it is a fault to smile?

There are. Vice, once by modest nature chain'd

And legal ties, expatiates unrestrain'd;

Without thin decency held up to view,

Naked she stalks o'er law and gospel too.

Our matrons lead such exemplary lives,

Men sigh in vain for none, but for their wives;

Who marry to be free, to range the more,

And wed one man to wanton with a score.

Abroad too kind, at home 'tis steadfast hate,

And one eternal tempest of debate.

What foul eruptions, from a look most meek!

What thunders bursting, from a dimpled cheek!

Their passions bear it with a lofty hand!

But then, their reason is at due command.

Is there whom you detest, and seek his life?

Trust no soul with the secret--but his wife.

Wives wonder that their conduct I condemn,

And ask, what kindred is a spouse to them?

What swarms of am'rous grandmothers I see!

And misses, ancient in iniquity?

What blasting whispers, and what loud declaiming!

What lying, drinking, bawding, swearing, gaming!

Friendship so cold, such warm incontinence;

Such griping av'rice, such profuse expense;

Such dead devotion, such a zeal for crimes;

Such licens'd ill, such masquerading times;

Such venal faith, such misapplied applause;

Such flatter'd guilt, and such inverted laws;

Such dissolution through the whole I find,

'Tis not a world, but chaos of mankind.

Since Sundays have no balls, the well-dress'd belle

Shines in the pew, but smiles to hear of hell;

And casts an eye of sweet disdain on all,

Who listens less to Collins than St. Paul.

Atheists have been but rare; since nature's birth,

Till now, she-atheists ne'er appear'd on earth.

Ye men of deep researches, say, whence springs

This daring character, in timorous things?

Who start at feathers, from an insect fly,

A match for nothing--but the Deity.

But, not to wrong the fair, the muse must own

In this pursuit they court not fame alone;

But join to that a more substantial view,

"From thinking free, to be free agents too."

They strive with their own hearts, and keep them down,

In complaisance to all the fools in town.

O how they tremble at the name of prude!

And die with shame at thought of being good!

For what will Artimis, the rich and gay,

What will the wits, that is, the coxcombs say?

They heaven defy, to earth's vile dregs a slave;

Thro' cowardice, most execrably brave.

With our own judgments durst we to comply,

In virtue should we live, in glory die.

Rise then, my muse, in honest fury rise;

They dread a satire, who defy the skies.

Atheists are few: most nymphs a Godhead own;

And nothing but his attributes dethrone.

From Atheists far, they steadfastly believe

God is, and is Almighty----to forgive.

His other excellence they'll not dispute;

But mercy, sure, is his chief attribute.

Shall pleasures of a short duration chain

A lady's soul in everlasting pain?

Will the great Author us poor worms destroy,

For now and then a sip of transient joy?

No, he's for ever in a smiling mood;

He's like themselves, or how could he be good?

And they blaspheme, who blacker schemes suppose.--

Devoutly, thus, Jehovah they depose,

The pure! the just! and set up, in his stead,

A deity, that's perfectly well bred.

"Dear Tillotson! be sure the best of men;

Nor thought he more, than thought great Origen,

Though once upon a time he misbehav'd;

Poor Satan! doubtless, he'll at length be sav'd.

Let priests do something for their one in ten;

It is their trade; so far they're honest men.

Let them cant on, since they have got the knack,

And dress their notions, like themselves, in black;

Fright us, with terrors of a world unknown,

From joys of this, to keep them all their own.

Of earth's fair fruits, indeed, they claim a fee;

But then they leave our untith'd virtue free.

Virtue's a pretty thing to make a show:

Did ever mortal write like Rochefocaut?"

Thus pleads the devil's fair apologist,

And, pleading, safely enters on his list.

Let angel-forms angelic truths maintain;

Nature disjoins the beauteous and profane.

For what's true beauty, but fair virtue's face?

Virtue made visible in outward grace?

She, then, that's haunted with an impious mind,

The more she charms, the more she shocks mankind.

But charms decline: the fair long vigils keep:

They sleep no more! (17)quadrille has murder'd sleep.

"Poor K--p! cries Livia; I have not been there

These two nights; the poor creature will despair.

I hate a crowd--but to do good, you know--

And people of condition should bestow."

Convinc'd, o'ercome, to K--p's grave matrons run;

Now set a daughter, and now stake a son;

Let health, fame, temper, beauty, fortune, fly;

And beggar half their race--thro' charity.

Immortal were we, or else mortal quite,

I less should blame this criminal delight:

But since the gay assembly's gayest room

Is but the upper story of some tomb,

Methinks, we need not our short beings shun,

And, thought to fly, contend to be undone.

We need not buy our ruin with our crime,

And give eternity to murder time.

The love of gaming is the worst of ills;

With ceaseless storms the blacken'd soul it fills;

Inveighs at heaven, neglects the ties of blood;

Destroys the power and will of doing good;

Kills health, pawns honour, plunges in disgrace,

And, what is still more dreadful--spoils your face.

See yonder set of thieves that live on spoil,

The scandal, and the ruin of our isle!

And see, (strange sight!) amid that ruffian band,

A form divine high wave her snowy hand;

That rattles loud a small enchanted box,

Which, loud as thunder, on the board she knocks.

And as fierce storms, which earth's foundation shook,

From 'olus's cave impetuous broke,

From this small cavern a mix'd tempest flies,

Fear, rage, convulsion, tears, oaths, blasphemies!

For men, I mean,--the fair discharges none;

She (guiltless creature!) swears to heaven alone.

See her eyes start! cheeks glow! and muscles swell!

Like the mad maid in the Cumean cell.

Thus that divine one her soft nights employs!

Thus tunes her soul to tender nuptial joys!

And when the cruel morning calls to bed,

And on her pillow lays her aching head,

With the dear images her dreams are crown'd,

The die spins lovely, or the cards go round;

Imaginary ruin charms her still;

Her happy lord is cuckol'd by spadille:

And if she's brought to bed, 'tis ten to one,

He marks the forehead of her darling son.

O scene of horror, and of wild despair,

Why is the rich Atrides' splended heir

Constrain'd to quit his ancient lordly seat,

And hide his glories in a mean retreat?

Why that drawn sword? And whence that dismal cry?

Why pale distraction thro' the family?

See my lord threaten, and my lady weep,

And trembling servants from the tempest creep.

Why that gay son to distant regions sent?

What fiends that daughter's destin'd match prevent?

Why the whole house in sudden ruin laid?

O nothing, but last night--my lady play'd.

But wanders not my satire from my theme?

Is this too owing to the love of fame?

Though now your hearts on lucre are bestow'd,

'Twas first a vain devotion to the mode;

Nor cease we here, since 'tis a vice so strong,

The torrent sweeps all womankind along;

This may be said, in honour of our times,

That none now stand distinguish'd by their crimes.

If sin you must, take nature for your guide:

Love has some soft excuse to soothe your pride:

Ye fair apostates from love's ancient power!

Can nothing ravish, but a golden shower?

Can cards alone your glowing fancy seize;

Must Cupid learn to punt, ere he can please?

When you're enamour'd of a lift or cast,

What can the preacher more, to make us chaste?

Why must strong youths unmarried pine away?

They find no woman disengag'd----from play.

Why pine the married--O severer fate!

They find from play no disengag'd--estate.

Flavia, at lovers false, untouch'd and hard,

Turns pale, and trembles at a cruel card.

Nor Arria's Bible can secure her age;

Her threescore years are shuffling with her page.

While death stands by, but till the game is done,

To sweep that stake, in justice, long his own;

Like old cards ting'd with sulphur, she takes fire;

Or, like snuffs sunk in sockets, blazes higher.

Ye gods! with new delights inspire the fair;

Or give us sons, and save us from despair.

Sons, brothers, fathers, husbands, tradesmen, close

In my complaint, and brand your sins in prose:

Yet I believe, as firmly as my creed,

In spite of all our wisdom, you'll proceed:

Our pride so great, our passion is so strong,

Advice to right confirms us in the wrong.

I hear you cry, "This fellow's very odd."

When you chastise, who would not kiss the rod?

But I've a charm your anger shall control,

And turn your eyes with coldness on the vole.

The charm begins! To yonder flood of light,

That bursts o'er gloomy Britain, turn your sight.

What guardian power o'erwhelms your souls with awe?

Her deeds are precepts, her example law;

'Midst empire's charms, how Carolina's heart

Glows with the love of virtue, and of art!

Her favour is diffus'd to that degree,

Excess of goodness! it has dawn'd on me:

When in my page, to balance numerous faults,

Or godlike deeds were shown, or gen'rous thoughts,

She smil'd, industrious to be pleas'd, nor knew

From whom my pen the borrow'd lustre drew.

(18)Thus the majestic mother of mankind,

To her own charms most amiably blind,

On the green margin innocently stood,

And gaz'd indulgent on the crystal flood;

Survey'd the stranger in the painted wave,

And, smiling, prais'd the beauties which she gave.