Where I was visiting the other Night, Comes a fine Lady with her humble Knight, Who had prevail'd with her, thro' her own Skill, As his Request, tho' much against his Will, To come to _London_-- As the Coach stopt, I heard her Voice, more loud Than a great bellied Woman's in a Crowd; Telling the Knight that her Affairs require He, for some Hours, obsequiously retire. I think she was asham'd he shou'd be seen, } Hard Fate of Husbands! the Gallant has been, } Tho' a diseas'd, ill-favour'd Fool, brought in. } Dispatch, says she, the Business you pretend, Your beastly Visit to your drunken Friend. A Bottle ever makes you look so fine; Methinks I long to smell you stink of Wine. Your Country-drinking Breath's enough to kill: Sour Ale corrected with a Lemon-Pill. Prithee, farewel: We'll meet again anon. The necessary Thing bows, and is gone. She flies up Stairs, and all the Haste does show That fifty antick Postures will allow, And then burst out--Dear Madam, am not I The strangest, alter'd Creature: Let me die I find my self ridiculously grown, Embarrast with my being out of Town Rude and untaught like any _Indian_ Queen; My Country Nakedness is plainly seen. How is Love govern'd? Love that rules the State; And pray who are the Men most worn of late? When I was marry'd, Fools were a-la-mode; The Men of Wit were held then incommode. Slow of Belief, and fickle in Desire, } Who, e'er they'll be persuaded, must enquire; } As if they came to spy, and not to admire. } With searching Wisdom, fatal to their Ease, They still find out why, what may, shou'd not please: Nay, take themselves for injur'd, when we dare Make 'em think better of us than we are: And, if we hide our Frailties from their Sights, Call us deceitful Jilts, and Hypocrites: They little guess, who at our Arts are griev'd, The perfect Joy of being well deceiv'd. Inquisitive, as jealous Cuckolds, grow; } Rather than not be knowing, they will know, } What being known, creates their certain Woe. } Women should these, of all Mankind, avoid; For Wonder, by clear Knowledge, is destroy'd. Woman, who is an arrant Bird of Night, } Bold in the dusk, before a Fool's dull sight, } Must fly, when Reason brings the glaring Light. } But the kind easie Fool, apt to admire } Himself, trusts us, his Follies all conspire } To flatter his, and favour our Desire. } Vain of his proper Merit, he, with ease, Believes we love him best, who best can please: On him our gross, dull, common Flatteries pass; Ever most happy when most made an Ass: Heavy to apprehend; tho' all Mankind } Perceive us false, the Fop, himself, is blind. } Who, doating on himself,-- } Thinks every one that sees him of his Mind. } These are true Womens Men--here, forc'd to cease Thro' want of Breath, not will, to hold her Peace; She to the Window runs, where she had spy'd Her much-esteem'd, dear Friend, the Monkey ty'd: With forty Smiles, as many antick Bows, As if't had been the Lady of the House The dirty, chatt'ring Monster she embrac'd; And made it this fine tender Speech at last.