Some said the s.e.x were pleased with handsome lies, And some gross flattery loved without disguise: 130 Truth is, says one, he seldom fails to win Who flatters well; for that's our darling sin: But long attendance, and a duteous mind, Will work even with the wisest of the kind.

One thought the s.e.x's prime felicity Was from the bonds of wedlock to be free; Their pleasures, hours, and actions all their own, And uncontroll'd to give account to none.

Some wish a husband-fool; but such are cursed, For fools perverse of husbands are the worst: 140 All women would be counted chaste and wise, Nor should our spouses see, but with our eyes; For fools will prate; and though they want the wit To find close faults, yet open blots will hit; Though better for their ease to hold their tongue, For womankind was never in the wrong.

So noise ensues, and quarrels last for life; The wife abhors the fool, the fool the wife.

And some men say that great delight have we, To be for truth extoll'd, and secrecy; 150 And constant in one purpose still to dwell; And not our husbands' counsels to reveal.

But that's a fable; for our s.e.x is frail, Inventing rather than not tell a tale.

Like leaky sieves, no secrets we can hold: Witness the famous tale that Ovid told.

Midas the king, as in his book appears, By Phoebus was endow'd with a.s.s's ears, Which under his long locks he well conceal'd, (As monarchs' vices must not be reveal'd) 160 For fear the people have them in the wind, Who long ago were neither dumb nor blind: Nor apt to think from Heaven their t.i.tle springs, Since Jove and Mars left off begetting kings.

This Midas knew; and durst communicate To none but to his wife his ears of state: One must be trusted, and he thought her fit, As pa.s.sing prudent, and a parlous wit.

To this sagacious confessor he went, And told her what a gift the G.o.ds had sent: 170 But told it under matrimonial seal, With strict injunction never to reveal.

The secret heard, she plighted him her troth, (And sacred sure is every woman's oath) The royal malady should rest unknown, Both for her husband's honour and her own; But ne'ertheless she pined with discontent; The counsel rumbled till it found a vent.

The thing she knew she was obliged to hide; By interest and by oath the wife was tied; 180 But if she told it not, the woman died.

Loath to betray a husband and a prince, But she must burst, or blab; and no pretence Of honour tied her tongue from self-defence.

A marshy ground commodiously was near, Thither she ran, and held her breath for fear; Lest if a word she spoke of any thing, That word might be the secret of the king.

Thus full of counsel to the fen she went, Griped all the way, and longing for a vent; 190 Arrived, by pure necessity compell'd, On her majestic marrow-bones she kneel'd: Then to the water's brink she laid her head, And as a bittour[79] b.u.mps within a reed, To thee alone, O lake, she said, I tell, (And, as thy queen, command thee to conceal!) Beneath his locks the king, my husband wears A goodly royal pair of a.s.s's ears: Now I have eased my bosom of the pain, Till the next longing fit return again. 200

Thus through a woman was the secret known; Tell us, and in effect you tell the town.

But to my tale; the knight with heavy cheer, Wandering in vain, had now consumed the year: One day was only left to solve the doubt, Yet knew no more than when he first set out.

But home he must, and as the award had been, Yield up his body captive to the queen.

In this despairing state he happ'd to ride, As fortune led him, by a forest side: 210 Lonely the vale, and full of horror stood, Brown with the shade of a religious wood!

When full before him, at the noon of night, (The moon was up, and shot a gleamy light) He saw a quire of ladies in a round That featly footing seem'd to skim the ground: Thus dancing hand in hand, so light they were, He knew not where they trod, on earth or air.

At speed he drove, and came a sudden guest, In hope where many women were, at least 220 Some one by chance might answer his request.

But faster than his horse the ladies flew, And in a trice were vanish'd out of view.

One only hag remain'd; but fouler far Than grandame apes in Indian forests are: Against a wither'd oak she lean'd her weight, Propp'd on her trusty staff, not half upright, And dropp'd an awkward courtesy to the knight; Then said, What makes you, sir, so late abroad Without a guide, and this no beaten road? 230 Or want you aught that here you hope to find, Or travel for some trouble in your mind?

The last I guess; and if I read aright, Those of our s.e.x are bound to serve a knight; Perhaps good counsel may your grief a.s.suage, Then tell your pain; for wisdom is in age.

To this the knight: Good mother, would you know The secret cause and spring of all my woe?

My life must with to-morrow's light expire, Unless I tell what women most desire. 240 Now could you help me at this hard essay, Or for your inborn goodness, or for pay; Yours is my life, redeem'd by your advice, Ask what you please, and I will pay the price; The proudest kerchief of the court shall rest Well satisfied of what they love the best.

Plight me thy faith, quoth she, that what I ask, Thy danger over, and perform'd thy task, That thou shalt give for hire of thy demand; Here take thy oath, and seal it on my hand; 250 I warrant thee, on peril of my life, Thy words shall please both widow, maid, and wife.

More words there needed not to move the knight To take her offer, and his truth to plight.

With that she spread a mantle on the ground, And, first inquiring whither he was bound, Bade him not fear, though long and rough the way, At court he should arrive ere break of day; His horse should find the way without a guide.

She said: with fury they began to ride, 260 He on the midst, the beldam at his side.

The horse what devil drove I cannot tell, But only this, they sped their journey well: And all the way the crone inform'd the knight, How he should answer the demand aright.

To court they came; the news was quickly spread Of his returning to redeem his head.

The female senate was a.s.sembled soon, With all the mob of women in the town: The queen sat lord chief-justice of the hall, 270 And bade the crier cite the criminal.

The knight appear'd; and silence they proclaim; Then first the culprit answer'd to his name: And, after forms of law, was last required To name the thing that women most desired.

The offender, taught his lesson by the way, And by his counsel order'd what to say, Thus bold began: My lady liege, said he, What all your s.e.x desire is Sovereignty.

The wife affects her husband to command; 280 All must be hers, both money, house, and land.

The maids are mistresses even in their name; And of their servants full dominion claim.

This, at the peril of my head, I say, A blunt plain truth, the s.e.x aspires to sway, You to rule all, while we, like slaves, obey.

There was not one, or widow, maid, or wife, But said the knight had well deserved his life.

Even fair Geneura, with a blush, confess'd The man had found what women love the best.

Upstarts the beldam, who was there unseen, 290 And, reverence made, accosted thus the queen: My liege, said she, before the court arise, May I, poor wretch, find favour in your eyes, To grant my just request? 'twas I who taught The knight this answer, and inspired his thought; None but a woman could a man direct To tell us women what we most affect.

But first I swore him on his knightly troth, (And here demand performance of his oath) 300 To grant the boon that next I should desire; He gave his faith, and I expect my hire: My promise is fulfill'd; I saved his life, And claim his debt, to take me for his wife.

The knight was ask'd, nor could his oath deny, But hoped they would not force him to comply.

The women, who would rather wrest the laws, Than let a sister-plaintiff lose the cause, (As judges on the bench more gracious are, And more attent to brothers of the bar) 310 Cried one and all, the suppliant should have right, And to the grandame hag adjudged the knight.

In vain he sigh'd, and oft with tears desired Some reasonable suit might be required.

But still the crone was constant to her note; The more he spoke, the more she stretch'd her throat.

In vain he proffer'd all his goods, to save His body destined to that living grave.

The liquorish hag rejects the pelf with scorn; And nothing but the man would serve her turn. 320 Not all the wealth of eastern kings, said she, Have power to part my plighted love, and me; And, old and ugly as I am, and poor, Yet never will I break the faith I swore; For mine thou art by promise, during life, And I thy loving and obedient wife.

My love! nay, rather, my d.a.m.nation thou, Said he: nor am I bound to keep my vow: The fiend thy sire hath sent thee from below, Else how couldst thou my secret sorrows know? 330 Avaunt, old witch! for I renounce thy bed: The queen may take the forfeit of my head, Ere any of my race so foul a crone shall wed.

Both heard, the judge p.r.o.nounced against the knight; So was he married in his own despite; And all day after hid him as an owl, Not able to sustain a sight so foul.

Perhaps the reader thinks I do him wrong, To pa.s.s the marriage feast, and nuptial song: Mirth there was none, the man was _a-la-mort_, 340 And little courage had to make his court.

To bed they went, the bridegroom and the bride: Was never such an ill-pair'd couple tied, Restless, he toss'd and tumbled to and fro, And roll'd, and wriggled further off, for woe.

The good old wife lay smiling by his side, And caught him in her quivering arms, and cried, When you my ravish'd predecessor saw, You were not then become this man of straw; Had you been such, you might have 'scaped the law. 350 Is this the custom of King Arthur's court?

Are all round-table knights of such a sort?

Remember, I am she who saved your life, Your loving, lawful, and complying wife: Not thus you swore in your unhappy hour, Nor I for this return employ'd my power.

In time of need I was your faithful friend; Nor did I since, nor ever will offend.

Believe me, my loved lord, 'tis much unkind; What fury has possess'd your alter'd mind? 360 Thus on my wedding night--without pretence-- Come turn this way, or tell me my offence.

If not your wife, let reason's rule persuade; Name but my fault, amends shall soon be made.

Amends! nay, that's impossible, said he, What change of age or ugliness can be?

Or could Medea's magic mend thy face, Thou art descended from so mean a race, That never knight was match'd with such disgrace.

What wonder, madam, if I move my side, 370 When, if I turn, I turn to such a bride?

And is this all that troubles you so sore?

And what the devil couldst thou wish me more?

Ah, Benedicite, replied the crone; Then cause of just complaining have you none.

The remedy to this were soon applied, Would you be like the bridegroom to the bride: But, for you say a long descended race, And wealth and dignity, and power and place, Make gentlemen, and that your high degree 380 Is much disparaged to be match'd with me; Know this, my lord, n.o.bility of blood Is but a glittering and fallacious good: The n.o.bleman is he, whose n.o.ble mind Is fill'd with inborn worth, unborrow'd from his kind.

The King of Heaven was in a manger laid, And took his earth but from an humble maid; Then what can birth, or mortal men, bestow?

Since floods no higher than their fountains flow.

We, who for name and empty honour strive, 390 Our true n.o.bility from him derive.

Your ancestors, who puff your mind with pride, And vast estates to mighty t.i.tles tied, Did not your honour, but their own, advance; For virtue comes not by inheritance.

If you tralineate from your father's mind, What are you else but of a b.a.s.t.a.r.d kind?

Do, as your great progenitors have done, And, by their virtues, prove yourself their son.

No father can infuse or wit or grace; 400 A mother comes across, and mars the race.

A grandsire or a grandame taints the blood; And seldom three descents continue good.

Were virtue by descent, a n.o.ble name Could never villanise his father's fame; But, as the first, the last of all the line, Would, like the sun, even in descending shine; Take fire, and bear it to the darkest house, Betwixt King Arthur's court and Caucasus: If you depart, the flame shall still remain, 410 And the bright blaze enlighten all the plain: Nor, till the fuel perish, can decay, By nature form'd on things combustible to prey.

Such is not man, who, mixing better seed With worse, begets a base degenerate breed: The bad corrupts the good, and leaves behind No trace of all the great begetter's mind.

The father sinks within his son, we see, And often rises in the third degree; If better luck a better mother give, 420 Chance gave us being, and by chance we live.

Such as our atoms were, even such are we, Or call it chance, or strong necessity: Thus loaded with dead weight, the will is free.

And thus it needs must be; for seed conjoin'd Lets into nature's work the imperfect kind; But fire, the enlivener of the general frame, Is one, its operation still the same.

Its principle is in itself: while ours Works, as confederates war, with mingled powers; 430 Or man or woman, which soever fails: And oft the vigour of the worse prevails.

Aether with sulphur blended alters hue, And casts a dusky gleam of Sodom blue.

Thus, in a brute, their ancient honour ends, And the fair mermaid in a fish descends: The line is gone; no longer duke or earl; But, by himself degraded, turns a churl.

n.o.bility of blood is but renown Of thy great fathers by their virtue known, 440 And a long trail of light, to thee descending down.

If in thy smoke it ends, their glories shine; But infamy and villanage are thine.

Then what I said before is plainly show'd, The true n.o.bility proceeds from G.o.d; Nor left us by inheritance, but given By bounty of our stars, and grace of Heaven.

Thus from a captive Servius Tullius rose, Whom for his virtues the first Romans chose: Fabricius from their walls repell'd the foe, 450 Whose n.o.ble hands had exercised the plough.

From hence, my lord, and love, I thus conclude, That though my homely ancestors were rude, Mean as I am, yet I may have the grace To make you father of a generous race: And n.o.ble then am I, when I begin, In virtue clothed, to cast the rags of sin.

If poverty be my upbraided crime, And you believe in Heaven, there was a time When He, the great controller of our fate, 460 Deign'd to be man, and lived in low estate; Which He who had the world at his dispose, If poverty were vice, would never choose.

Philosophers have said, and poets sing, That a glad poverty's an honest thing.

Content is wealth, the riches of the mind; And happy he who can that treasure find.

But the base miser starves amidst his store, Broods on his gold, and, griping still at more, Sits sadly pining, and believes he's poor. 470 The ragged beggar, though he want relief, Has not to lose, and sings before the thief.