Womens Superstition.

OR I'm a very Dunce, or Womankind
Is a most unintelligible thing:
I can no Sense, nor no Contexture find,
Nor their loose parts to Method bring,
I know not what the Learn'd may see,
But they'r strange Hebrew things to Mee.

By Customs and Traditions they live,
And foolish Ceremonies of antick date,
We Lovers, new and better Doctrines give.
Yet they continue obstinate;
Preach we, Loves Prophets, what we will,
Like Iews, they keep their old Law still.

Before their Mothers Gods, they fondly fall,
Vain Idol-Gods that have no Sense nor Mind:
Honour's their Ashtaroth, and Pride their Baal,
The Thundring Bâal of Woman-kind.
With twenty other Devils more,
Which They, as We do Them, adore.

But then, like Men both Covetous and Devout,
Their costly Superstition loath t'omit,
And yet more loath to issue Moneys out,
At their own charge to furnish it.
To these expensive Deities,
The Hearts of Men they sacrifice.