A Consolatory Epistle to a Friend made unhappy by Marriage; or, A Scourge for ill Wives

That Man, my Friend, does tempt a dang'rous Fate,
That lists himself into a Marriage State.
Where is that He so happy in a Bride,
But oft does wish the fatal Knot unty'd?
Qualms of Disquiet will oppress his thought,
And make him see his Marriage was a fau't.
And if the happy find so bad success,
They that have ill Wives, sure, must hope for less.
Killing Vexations, Cares and sleepless Nights,
Put a long stop to all their best Delights:
And then with Grief they find (what greater ill?)
They're wretched, and are sure to be so still.
But 'twill be urg'd; if 'tis a Snare so great,
What makes Men add Wings to their own ill Fate?
And strive to meet misfortunes with such hast,
Which of themselves, alas! come on too fast?
But ah! set human frailty in your Eyes,
Impossible we shou'd be always wise!
Or grant we cou'd, this Sea has unseen Shelves,
Where ev'n the wisest oft are split themselves.
And therefore I that Maxim disapprove,
That those that join here, first, are join'd above.
If Marriages are made by Heav'ns fixt will,
O that some Doctor, with his Heav'nly skill,
Wou'd tell why most of 'em are made so ill.
Wretched Examples we may daily view;
But its worst Influence was shed on You.
In all things that cou'd please a Woman, blest,
Rich, Healthy, Young, and Witty as the best:
Yet ev'n these Gifts made your Misfortunes worse,
Since they but charm'd a Heart that prov'd your Curse.
Good Heav'ns! who then saw and heard her vow,
Cou'd think she'd ever be, what she is now?
Her Carriage Impudent, perverse her Will,
The scorn of Good Wives, and the worst of Ill!

I'll take her, first, ev'n in her Virgin State,
Which she was all along observ'd to hate:
And if from Dreams we may her Nature scan,
She ev'n in them wou'd sigh and call for Man.
The disobedience she to Friends did shew,
Told us, she'd play the same Game o'er with You.
I know 'tis cruel to remind you' again
Of wrongs y'ave suffer'd, and add pain to pain;
But, if you will a while your thoughts suspend,
You'l find, at least, I mean you like a Friend.

You marry'd her, and there your Woes began,
'Twas your hard chance to be that hapless Man:
Yet, if Joys by appearance might be guess'd,
There were few Men but thought you doubly blest.
You lov'd her above thought, above controul,
Sooner than wrong her, you'd ha' wrong'd your Soul:
And yet (so far her cunning did excel)
It was believ'd that she lov'd you as well.
Ah! what a Riddle is a Woman's will,
That seems so good, and is, indeed, so ill?
For soon she threw off Vertues, forc'd disguise,
With which, a while, she strove t' amuse your Eyes;
And then, to shew which way she lean'd before,
We saw that she was rotten at the Core.
Her roving thoughts were bounded by no Law,
But lusted after every Man she saw:
From thought she eagerly to action fled,
And brought Pollution to a sacred Bed.
Blinded by Love, all this you cou'd not view,
The last that did believe her false was You.
Your sorrow here no Language can express,
It griev'd your Heart, and ah! what cou'd it less?
To see the charming Partner of your Youth,
(Whose Breast you thought had been a Mine of Truth)
Root up the Name of Vertue from her Heart,
And boldly act an unexampl'd part.
Assaulted by the Master Fiend of Hell,
It was no wonder the first Woman fell;
But this ten thousand times more Vice has shown
Without Temptation, all the Fault her own.
Ev'n in this Exigence, you, yet, were Calm,
Widn'd no Wounds, but rather pour'd in Balm:
Good wholsom counsel you prescrib'd her still;
Weak Physick to bring back a Wife from ill:
Men, tho' they're wicked, stop oft in their Race,
And oft reflect upon their dang'rous Case;
Though damn'd, they'l yet seem loth to be undone:
But Woman, like a River, keeps due on;
And like that River, if they stop her Course,
Grows wild, and will not be restrain'd by force.
For such rough means you cannot be accus'd;
But she'd have been the same, had force been us'd
To prove this, think how from your Arms she fled,
And for a Lawless, left a Lawful Bed
Conceal'd her self with an Incestuous Flame,
Conceal'd her self, but she reveal'd her shame:
While you, with heavy Eyes and Arms across,
Were sighing, mourning, dying for the loss.
Loss did I call it? 'twas so far from one
It prov'd a Blessing, as I'll shew anon.)
But now, litigious grown, and past all awe,
She plung'd you in the Fetters of the Law,
And back't by those who her ill cause maintain'd,
She su'd for Alimony, su'd and gain'd:
Thus Honesty may be opprest with might,
For Power does often make the wrong the right.
Her hitting this mark pleas'd her very Soul,
For 'twas her aim to live without Controul.
Here 'twas she bid adieu to true Renown,
And turn'd up tail to every Ass in Town;
Porter and Groom went undistinguish't down:
Where is the Man that hath not found her ill?
Or where's the Man that may not, if he will?
Ah foolish Woman! may she one day see
How deep sh' has plung'd her self in Infamy,
And with true Penitence wash out the stain; —
But —mischief on't — why shou'd I pray in vain?
For she's but hardn'd at the name of Grace;
No blush was ever seen t' adorn her Face.

As soon as e're she wakes, it is her way
To think how she may wast the following day.
If to serve Heav'n our pretious time is lent,
Each moment, that's in chase of sin mispent,
Will one day blame us we that Treasure lose
Which we might to such vast advantage use;
If this be so, sure, her Account is long,
That by meer choice does labour to do wrong.
Well, now she'l rise, and to proclaim no less,
Her Footmen are rung in to help her dress;
A Ianty mode — for since from France it came
(Brought over by a Female of great Fame)
'Twere rude to give it any other Name.
Hackney is call'd, Hackney her dear Alcove,
(Where Coachmen, for their Fare, enjoy her Love)
Hackney, on which, as o'er the Stones they go,
She oft this high Encomium will bestow:
Some love t' embrace on Couches, some i' th' Fields;
I'm for the Bawdy-House that runs on Wheels,
Where every Kennel does the Bliss enhance,
And each kind jolt's all Rapture and all Trance!
Full of such thoughts she scow'rs it up and down,
And, e'r night, visits all the Bawds in Town:
The Company of this she does desire
To sup with her; anothers sent t' enquire
For Coolers to allay her am'rous fire;
In vain, for she's to Tyrant Lust a Slave,
Her barren Womb's Insatiate as the Grave;
Barren, nor can it well be any other,
She choaks the growth of one Seed by another.
Well now 'tis Ev'ning, and the Tavern's full
Of Lady and her Train, Bawd, Pimp and Trull:
Their Supper's call'd for, and a learn'd Harangue,
(By one of the grand Females of the Gang,
So very lewd she cou'd not fail to please)
Instead of Grace, is made in words like these.
Let canting Sots at meals their folly show,
And give thanks to a power they do not know:
To Nature we our praise acknowledge due,
The Patroness of Life and Leachery too:
Our best Blood in her Quarrels we expose,
She here repays us with that Blood we lose;
With sparkling Wines infuses fresh desire;
As fast as we quench, she renews the Fire.
'Tis they tread false that dare our steps deride,
Can we go wrong that have so sure a guide?
No, no, what ever she dictates, we'll do,
For all is lawful that she prompts us to.
Let us not then think of a base retreat,
Or be impos'd on by a holy Cheat;
She bids us tast of Man, as well as Meat.
She ends, the Lady riggles her lewd Breech,
And with a loud laugh, thanks her for her Speech.
Imagine now (for 'twere too long to tell
All the vain Table-Conference that befel)
The Board is clear'd, and free from care and thinking,
With one consent, all of 'em vote for Drinking.
And now you'd think the end of all were come,
And Chaos and Confusion in the Room:
A thousand various shapes the prospect fill,
And every one, above expression, ill;
Here you may see the am'rous War begun,
And, for a while, the rest all looking on,
Till fir'd with thought to tast the same delight,
They strip, and naked rush into the fight:
And then such Scenes, such Postures are contriv'd,
You'd swear old Sodom were again reviv'd,
And all the Chiefs of that accursed Crew
Broke loose from Hell, to act their Crimes anew.
Tir'd, the Reck'ning's call'd, and, more or less,
Host, Hostess, Drawers meet the same success,
They're kick't down Stairs with many a bitter Curse,
And think they're favour'd if they're us'd no worse;
And after all's turn'd to a meer Bear-Garden,
They go off ranting, and not pay a farthing.
And then in Man's Cloaths, like some hot-brain'd Blade,
She sallies through the Town in Masquerade:
Bounces, like Bell-men, against every door,
And roars out a good morrow with Rogue and Whore.
In all her walk no Window can escape,
For mischief's her delight in every shape.
In short, b' abusing nightly all she meets,
Murder and Riot's common to our Streets.

Now let unbyast Men judge, by these crimes,
If she's not grown a grievance to the times.
What Satyr with such Faults can be too rough?
For my part, I can't write half sharp enough.
Were my Ink Gall, and my keen Pen cou'd stab,
The World shou'd see how I wou'd maul this Drab.

The Company she keeps is for her fit,
All very lewd, with very little Wit.
But chiefly one, I must, perforce, applaud,
One who all men can tell was born a Bawd,
Procur'd as soon as spoke; in Hyde-Park nurst,
Her Infant Vice did sprout and flourish first.
Letters she wou'd convey from Coach to Coach,
And every day set lewd Intriegues abroach;
"In her alone 'twas natural to debauch.
As soon as ever she was turn'd of ten,
Successively, she'd tire as many Men:
Nay, if her Actions by her Age we measure,
They prove her Whore e'r she cou'd tast the Pleasure.
Now rotten grown, each pocky symptom shows
She's like to drop in pieces as she goes.
This modest Creature, this Black-Angel Saint,
She has install'd her Bosom Confidant:
And the chief Reason why she this prefers,
Because her Vice goes hand in hand with hers.
Early they enter'd the Venereal chase,
And hitherto they're equal in the race,
Swift they begun, and still they keep their pace.
To ly, detract, talk Bawdy and Blaspheme,
Employs their time, they scorn all other Theme.
The Oaths that Bullies barter at a fray
Or eager Gamesters when they lose at play,
Are nothing, when we them with those compare,
Which, in their Cups, flow from this Friendly Pair.

Bullies she keeps, too, void of sense and shame,
With five-foot Swords to vindicate her Fame:
Good Heav'ns! that she shou'd think of a good Name!
All Rabble-Rascals, born of Parents base,
Their Pedigree is blazon'd on their Face.
Vain, rude, ill-bred, the scandal of their kind,
And therefore fit for the ill Fate they find;
Which is to wast their health with her a-nights,
And their base blood in needless brawls and fights.
What Brutes are these! that can so busy be,
To take great pains, to get great Infamy?

But hitherto, my Friend, you'l only find
I've shown how she degenerates in her mind,
Her Person in the Change, too, has it's share;
You'l find as great an alteration there:
Bloated all o'er, her Hyde can hardly hold her,
Neck shrunk, her Head does lean upon each shoulder,
Her Face carbunckl'd, Nodes upon her Skin,
Which shows there's rank Contagion lodg'd within.
Compar'd with that which to your Arms she came,
Neither her Soul nor Body are the same:
Yet thus deform'd, a Dog wou'd loath to meet her,
She makes out fresh enquiry for a Keeper;
In vain, she'l nere succeed do what she can;
The only Woman, since the World began,
That's ev'n too vile to match her self in Man.

But here, perhaps some People may object,
I've us'd a Friend's Wife with too course neglect;
I ought to pity her, if not respect.
But I wou'd fain know of these senseless Elves,
That thinks so very wisely of themselves,
If when a Feavor rages in the Blood,
The Doctor's pity does the Patient good.
These are, forsooth, so tender of her Fame,
Rather than blame her Faults they Cloak her shame;
While I that pity not, a better Friend,
Show her her self, and teach her how to mend.

By this time, I presume, all are inclin'd
To think you the most wretched of Mankind,
And past hope of relief— I answer, no;
Nay more than that, so far from being so,
Among the Fry of Husbands, there's but few
That know so much Tranquillity as You.
The shaft is blunt that was so sharp at first;
And 'tis some Comfort to be past the worst.
No jealous pangs, with anguish, you conceal,
The most inveterate Sting that Man can feel;
For, certainly, it is less pain to know
A Wife is False, than to believe she's so.
Nay you are safer than th' unmarry'd are,
For they are still in danger of the snare:
Their misery is to come, but yours is past,
Yours but a while, and theirs may ever last.
But some will say, y' are still at vast expence —
'Tis true, but then your Peace does spring from thence.
The sep'rate maintainance you yearly give,
Sep'rate from her, makes you in safety live.
The more you think the more this thought will please;
You give her money, and she gives you ease:
And where's the Man, so ill in love with Life,
But wou'd do more to have it freed from strife?
How many Men of Honour cou'd I name
That wou'd give thousands, were their Case the same?
For an ill Wife will stick where she is thrown;
Few beside you can say, The Bird is flown.
Tell me not you might meet some Heav'nly Dame,
That loves you with a chast and fervent Flame,
Whose Charms to endless Pleasure do invite;
And she has robb'd you of the vast delight.
What Man! what run again into the Snare
Where you were caught so lately? Have a care:
Of your dear Reputation be more nice,
There's no excuse for him that marries twice;
Especially, if his first Wife were bad,
For she proclaims him moap't, the second, mad.
But why all this? y'ave try'd the dangerous Main,
And are too wise to trust your Fate again.

Compar'd with yours, how wretched is his plight
That's join'd with a Lascivious Hypocrite?
Who, still professing good, is ill by stealth;
Wasts his Estate, and undermines his health;
Yet, all the while, laughs in the Dotards Face,
And thinks her wickedness is his disgrace?
Though your good Woman, of the two, is worse,
Yet tother to the Man's the greatest Curse.
For ever free from such sallacious guile,
You live in Peace, and at the Monster smile.
Enjoy your Book, your Bottle, and your Friend,
Three of as choice Companions Heav'n can send.
These are the Blessings that attend your Life,
For which, in some sort, you may thank your Wife.
For if she had continu'd with you still,
Your Cure had been above the reach of skill:
The Sweets which now you tast had turn'd to Gall,
And wanting sweet content y'ad wanted all:
Which now, y'are sure, she never can destroy,
But see a Prospect all made up of Joy.