The Mad-Dog: a Tale

A prude, at morn and ev'ning prayer,
Had worn her velvet cushion bare;
Upward she taught her eyes to roll,
As if she watch'd her soaring soul;
And when devotion warm'd the crowd,
None sung, or smote their breast so loud
Pale Penitence had mark'd her face
With all the meagre signs of grace.
Her mass-book was completely lin'd
With painted saints of various kind:
But when in ev'ry page she view'd
Fine ladies who the flesh subdued;
As quick her beads she counted o'er,
She cried — such wonders are no more!
She chose not to delay confession,
To bear at once a year's transgression,
But ev'ry week set all things even,
And balanced her accounts with heav'n.

Behold her now in humble guise,
Upon her knees with downcast eyes
Before the Priest: she thus begins,
And, sobbing, blubbers forth her sins;
Who could that tempting man resist?
My virtue languish'd, as he kiss'd;
I strove, — till I could strive no longer,
How can the weak subdue the stronger?

The father ask'd her where and when?
How many? and what sort of men?
By what degrees her blood was heated?
How oft the frailty was repeated?

Thus have I seen a pregnant wench
All flush'd with guilt before the bench,
The judges (waked by wanton thought)
Dive to the bottom of her fault,
They leer, they simper at her shame,
And make her call all things by name.

And now to sentence he proceeds,
Prescribes how oft to tell her beads;
Shows her what saints could do her good,
Doubles her fasts to cool her blood.

Eased of her sins, and light as air,
Away she trips, perhaps to prayer.
'Twas no such thing. Why then this haste?
The clock has struck, the hour is past,
And on the spur of inclination,
She scorn'd to bilk her assignation.

Whate'er she did, next week she came,
And piously confest the same;
The Priest, who female frailties pity'd,
First chid her, then her sins remitted.
But did she now her crime bemoan
In penitential sheets alone?
And was no bold, no beastly fellow
The nightly partner of her pillow?
No, none; for the next time in the grove
A bank was conscious of her love.

Confession day was come about,
And now again it all must out.
She seems to wipe her twinkling eyes.
What now, my child, the father cries.

Again, says she! — with threat'ning looks,
He thus the prostrate dame rebukes.

Madam, I grant there's something in it,
That virtue has th' unguarded minute;
But pray now tell me what are whores,
But women of unguarded hours?
Then you must sure have lost all shame.
What, ev'ry day, and still the same,
And no fault else! 'tis strange to find
A woman to one sin confin'd!

Pride is this day her darling passion,
The next day slander is in fashion;
Gaming succeeds; if fortune crosses,
Then virtue's mortgaged for her losses;
By use her fav'rite vice she loathes,
And loves new follies like new clothes:
But you, beyond all thought unchaste,
Have all sin center'd near your waist!
Whence is this appetite so strong?
Say, Madam, did your mother long?
Or is it lux'ry and high diet
That won't let virtue sleep in quiet?
She tells him now with meekest voice,
That she had never err'd by choice,
Nor was their known a virgin chaster,
Till ruin'd by a sad disaster.
That she a fav'rite lap-dog had,
Which, (as she stroked and kiss'd) grew mad;
And on her lip a wound indenting,
First set her youthful blood fermenting.

The priest replied, with zealous fury,
You should have sought the means to cure ye.
Doctors by various ways, we find,
Treat these distempers of the mind.

Let gaudy ribbands be denied
To her who raves with scornful pride;
And if religion crack her notions,
Lock up her volumes of devotions;
But, if for man her rage prevail,
Bar her the sight of creatures male.

Or else to cure such venom'd bites,
And set the shatter'd thoughts arights;
They send you to the ocean's shore,
And plunge the patient o'er and o'er.

The dame replied, alas! in vain
My kindred forced me to the main;
Naked and in the face of day:
Look not, ye fishermen, this way!
What virgin had not done as I did?
My modest hand, by nature guided,
Debarr'd at once from human eyes
The seat where female honour lies.
And though thrice dipt from top to toe,
I still secured the post below,
And guarded it with grasp so fast
Not one drop through my fingers past;
Thus owe I to my bashful care
That all the rage is settled there.

Weigh well the projects of mankind;
Then tell me, Reader, canst thou find
The man from madness wholly free?
They all are mad — save you and me.
Do not the statesman, fop, and wit,
By daily follies prove they're bit?
And when the briny cure they tried,
Some part still kept above the tide?

Some men (when drench'd beneath the wave)
High o'er their heads their fingers save:
Those hands by mean extortion thrive,
Or in the pocket lightly dive:

Or more expert in pilf'ring vice,
They burn and itch to cog the dice.

Plunge in a courtier; straight his fears
Direct his hands to stop his ears.
And now truth seems a grating noise,
He loves the sland'rer's whisp'ring voice;
He hangs on flatt'ry with delight,
And thinks all fulsome praise is right.

All women dread a wat'ry death:
They shut their lips to hold their breath,
And though you duck them ne'er so long,
Not one salt drop e'er wets their tongue;
'Tis hence they scandal have at will,
And that this member ne'er lies still.