A satyrical epistle to the female author of a poem, call'd Silvia's revenge, &c. by the author of the satyr against woman. Gould, Robert, d. 1709? 1691 Approx. 23 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 13 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2003-09 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). A41702 Wing G1436 ESTC R2756 12781584 ocm 12781584 93821 This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal . The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission. Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A41702) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 93821) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 983:15) A satyrical epistle to the female author of a poem, call'd Silvia's revenge, &c. by the author of the satyr against woman. Gould, Robert, d. 1709? 24 p. Printed for R. Bentley ..., London : 1691. Reproduction of original in Huntington Library. Created by converting TCP files to TEI P5 using tcp2tei.xsl, TEI @ Oxford. Re-processed by University of Nebraska-Lincoln and Northwestern, with changes to facilitate morpho-syntactic tagging. Gap elements of known extent have been transformed into placeholder characters or elements to simplify the filling in of gaps by user contributors. 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Copies of the texts have been issued variously as SGML (TCP schema; ASCII text with mnemonic sdata character entities); displayable XML (TCP schema; characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or text strings within braces); or lossless XML (TEI P5, characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or TEI g elements). Keying and markup guidelines are available at the Text Creation Partnership web site . eng Women -- Poetry. Women -- Early works to 1800. 2003-03 TCP Assigned for keying and markup 2003-04 Aptara Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2003-06 John Latta Sampled and proofread 2003-06 John Latta Text and markup reviewed and edited 2003-08 pfs Batch review (QC) and XML conversion A Satyrical Epistle TO THE FEMALE AUTHOR OF A POEM , CALL'D SILVIA's REVENGE , &c. By the AUTHOR of the SATYR against Woman . Mil. Par. Lost. — Revenge at first , tho' sweet , Bitter , e're long , back on it self recoils . LONDON : Printed for R. Bentley , at the Post-House in Russel street in Covent-Garden , near the Piazza's . MDCXCI . A Satyrical Epistle TO THE FEMALE AUTHOR OF A POEM CALL'D SILVIA's REVENGE , &c. YES , Dame , 't is so ; Satyr shall scourge the Age , While there is Subject to maintain her Rage , And that , no doubt , there will for ever be ; At least , as long as we are plagu'd with thee . Thou ill Defendress of a Cause as ill , Rashly led on by that Blind Guide , thy Will ; In Ink thy fulsom Pen why didst thou foul , Unless to show the Blackness of thy Soul ? Which thou hast prov'd ( so well y 'ave ply'd the Task ) Of the same Fiend-Complexion , as thy Mask : Markt for the Stygian Colloney below , It here does Practise what 't is there to do : All you have Writ does shew y' are thence inspir'd , And only there can hope to be admir'd ; For Men detest thee ; nay , so far y 'ave gone , Y 'ave pull'd the Womens Indignation on , And Reason too — as we will shew anon . Of all thy Sex thou art the most unfit To Vindicate their Virtues , or their Wit , For in the rest , some Sparks of Worth may shine , And from their Breasts put forth a Gleam Divine , But they for ever are extinct in thine ; In thee the Sun of Virtue 's set , and lies Eclips'd in loose Desires , no more to rise , And with its Maiden Glories , gild the Blushing Skies . Ephelia , poor Ephelia , Ragged Jilt , And Sapho , Famous for her Gout and Guilt , Either of these , tho' both Debaucht and Vile , Had answer'd me in a more Decent Style ; Yet Hackny Writers ; when their Verse did fail To get 'em Brandy , Bread and Cheese , and Ale , Their Wants by Prostitution were supply'd , Shew but a Tester , you might up and Ride ; For Punk and Poesie agree so pat , You cannot well be this , and not be that : Than thou , even these had better Conduct shown , Preserv'd their Sexes Fame , and half retriev'd their own . Shew me one Page , of all the goodly Store , That 's free from words like these ; Iilt , Strumpet , Whore , Hag , Hot-House , Fluxing , Leach'ry , Emp'ricks Bills , Claps , Cully , Keeper , Pox and Pocky Pills ; Things that wou'd shock the Modest Matron's Ear , And make her blush to think a Female fixt 'em there . But what are those you Hag and Harlot name ? Women ! what the destructive Bawd ? the same ; What Drabs and Guzzeling Gossips ? Women still ! Why dost thou tell us they cou'd be so Ill ? Methinks I hear the Hebrew Nymphs again , When two Great Hero's Deeds employ'd their strain , Thy Thousands thou , thou hast ten Thousands Slain ! A Thousand Crimes I nam'd ( and more conceal'd ) But by Ten Thousands they 're by thee reveal'd ! But say it all were true ( truth 't is we know ) 'T was , sure , unkind in you to blaze it so ; You on such Failings shou'd have drawn their Vails , And not obscenely shew'd their Cloven-feet and Tails : Vices enow in Mankind there appears , Enough to Exercise thy Rage for years , What need , so lavishly , exposing theirs ? Compar'd to thee , I 'me careful of their Fame : — But sure thou only Scribblest for a Name ; And , since thou art fond of it , thy Name shall live , What you can't give yourself , my pointed Lines shall give : Above all things call'd Shame , thou shalt be sham'd , For thy loose Life so Infamously Fam'd , Ev'n Bawds , thro' all their Brass , shall Blush to hear thee Nam'd . Wretched is She that dares to be thy Friend , But far more Wretched She that you commend ; For though She might for Modest pass before , Thy Praise wou'd Transubstantiate her to Whore : Thus , tho' thou shou'd'st mean well , 't wou'd never take , Virtue it self wou'd suffer for thy sake ; To be her Votary thought , thou art so Evil , Wou'd , tho' a Goddess , make her look like Devil . Silvia's Revenge , d' ye say ? indeed 't is like , Revenge will strike our own Fame , rather than not strike : For take this sharp-nail'd Truth , to scratch thy Itch , The Silvia you extol so , was a B — A Coquet Airy , Impudent and Vain , Made up of too much Love , or over-much Disdain ; Restless her Temper , Frantick her Desire , Either all Ice , or all o'er flaming Fire , Either she 'd Freeze , or Burn , no Mean betwixt , But all Extreme ; to no one point e're fixt , This Hour was Heav'n , and worse than Hell the next ; Perjur'd from Head to Foot , one Blot all o'er Of Sin , and quite round Rotten to the Core : She , and all such , I justly reprehend , Thee , and all such unjustly you defend : How dar'st thou to appear thus in a Cause So opposite to Heav'n and Humane Laws ? It speaks thee plainly her lewd Sister Twin , In Sense as shallow , and as deep in Sin , And perhaps deeper ; as the World may find , In that part of Iambick yet behind . In all my Rage and most Inveterate Fit , When Spleen had got the Mastery of Wit , I ne're said Maidenheads were Nothing yet ; Tho' , without Blush , thus far with thee we joyn , They are meer Nothings all , if all like Thine ; In thee alone the bold Assertion's good ; Lust was so soon Incorporate with thy Blood , At Ten Years Age the tingling Itch began , In Streams away thy Liquid Virgin ran , Dissolv'd ev'n but by thinking upon Man ; And if the Thougt cou'd so much Guilt contract , What wer 't thou when that Thought was put in Act ? Insatiate , ev'n Messalina cou'd Sooner have laid the Devil in her Blood. But is not the Fair Sex beholden much To thee , on that nice point , their Fame to touch ? Virginity , that Angel-State , wherein To live , almost is to live free from Sin ; If we can be contented with the State , Nor , Gudgeon-like , bite at the Specious Bait : But for that Charm who is it that wou'd care , Meer Lust excepted , to approach the Fair ? Why are we Fond , why Languish and Adore , But to have something none e'er had before ? To be the first that Crops the Virgin Flower , Just in the Critical and Blissful hour , When the strong watchful Guard resign their Power ; No longer by strict Honour kept in awe , But side with Nature's more Seraphick Law ; When in the Blushing Virgins kindling Eyes We see a Lovely Care , and Guilty Sweetness rise , While every Touch does raise her Ardour higher , Till she 's all over nothing but Desire ; When , pregnant with a thousand Nameless Charms , She Dies away , and Sinks into your Arms , Then Graps , Breaths short , her Glowing Eve-Balls rowl , And a Convulsive Rapture seizes on her Soul ! The Youth , by this , to the same pitch enflam'd , Here throws — but what succeeds need not be nam'd . O Transport ! Killing Transport ! Racking Bliss ! And is it Nothing that can cause all this ? Then , Sacred Nothing , let me cease to be That Something that I am , rather than Banishe thee , Rather than not , sometimes , have the Delight To dive for Thee into thy Realm of Night , To break thy Shell , and bid thee take thy Everlasting Flight ! The very thought w'have had thee gives us rest , And builds a Halcyon Calm in the kind Husbands Breast ; It gives ev'n Marriage a Delicious tast , And is the Oyl that makes those Colours last : Who e're does tye that Miserable Knot , And thinking sure to find thee , finds thee not , Words are too poor to paint his more than cursed Lot ! For She that let her Tail to Hire before , Has now a Specious Mask to gild the Whore ; Who does ill things unvail'd , will with a Vail do more : But She that brings it to the Nuptial Bower , She that preserves it Sacred to that Hour , To keep it so preserv'd has double Power : And what in Maids Virginity we name , In Chast and Faithful Wives does ripen into Fame . While thou , Accurst , Created for our harm , Cou'd'st never find this lucky hour to Charm ; Thou ne're wer't capable to give Delight , Thy Love was Lust , as now thy Anger 's Spite : When thou wert young , and for a Change , might please Some Fop that did not fear the Foul Disease , We never heard of thee in Lines like these ; Then 't was Amintor , Strephon , gentle Swain , And Songs , writ in a Melancholy Strain , Made known thy want of Stallion thro' the Plain : The Brawny Porter that best pitcht the Bar , Was form'd , thou said'st , by Heav'n to ease thy Care : In Truth , nor Youth , nor Wit , no Charm you thought , But strength of Back was all , and that you bought : ( Curst , the mean while , be he ( lewd , to be fed ) That by that Slimy Drudgery gets his Bread ) Thus with a lumpish Airyness , too dull To move Good Men , you prey'd on Knave and Fool : Now Ball-Brow'd Time has Hagg'd thee into Age , Thy Swains have left to Pipe , and thou , in Rage , Has brought the Broad-backt Brutes upon the Stage ; Telling the World , what thou need'st not have told , That they are very False , and thou a very Scold . False , said I ? but that no ill thing , can be , Perjury's no Fault when it relates to thee : Ev'n in thy Youth , in all thy Gloting Prime , Thou cou'd'st not be Caress'd without a Crime ; Who e're did gaze on thee , his Mistress , straight , Did Brand him with the Name of Profligate ; The Man that stoopt to thee , cou'd never rise Gracious in any other Female's Eyes : What now then , when those borrow'd Charms are fail'd , Which but with Fops and Monkeys e're prevail'd , And all the Paint's washt off , and all is Fiend unvail'd ? Nor hast a Refuge left to Drudge for Life , But turning Bawd , or that worse thing , a Wife ; A Wife ! if any man so wild will be , To leap that horrid Precipice for thee ; That Husband 's Fate in Wedlock's hard to tell ; Others might bring him Care , but thou wou'd'st bring him Hell. Yet Man you Curse ; and Woman , his Delight , He must not see by day , nor touch by Night ; Why , cou'd you do your Sex a Plaguier spite ? But most thy self ; all that have Eyes may see That Curse wou'd fall most heavy upon thee : Almost from Five to Fifty thou hast known What Man was Carnally , nor lain alone Without one , two , or more , but with Regret and Moan : Purse without Money is a burning shame , Bed and no Man in 't , thou dost think the same : Ev'n Posture-Moll her self , when thou art by , Obscene ! has some pretence to Modesty . But mark th' Inconstancy of Womankind , And the wild variations of their Mind : She who but now ( in this her Temper scan ) Did toil to make her Sex abandon Man , Now blames those Husbands that so dull can prove , Drunk , to neglect the great Affair of Love : I find her fulsom Itch is not yet gone , She loves by Drunkards to be Belcht upon : What Modest Dame , that had a Spouse so ill , Wou'd not much rather have him then be still ? A Drunkard is a Brute beneath our Curse , But she , who then can fondle him , is worse ; Swine as he is , cou'd he but Mount and Ride , Thy Poem with his Praise had been supply'd : As Wine 's Provocative , you like it well , But as it spoils Performance , hate it more than Hell ; So not meer Drink it self caus'd thy disgust , But that it does unnerve desire , and baulk expecting Lust. O Female Innocence ! — but since I 'm in , What is 't by Female Innocence you mean ? A Wife , it seems — who 'd think it cou'd have been ? If ( as it oft haps in the space of Life ) We of Sir Spouse shou'd ask for Dame his Wife , How Comical 't wou'd look , thus to begin ? Pray — is your Female Innocence within ? Who 's that , he crys ? — Your Wife — the Devil , says he , Shall as soon pass for Innocent with me ; A Wife an Innocent — then Bawds are Chast , Hags , grim as Death , are with all Beauty grac't , Coquets not vain , a thrice Flux'd Actress just , And Monarchs Shining Strumpets free from Pride and Lust. But thou , who , in a Loose and Frontless Strain , Virtue and Virtuous Women dost Prophane , Blush first , then hear thy Injur'd Sex Complain ; For one , for all , I see come from the throng , In Shape an Angel , and her Heav'nly Tongue , Her Speech to thee directed , thus redeems her wrong . Shame of our Sex , what Rage cou'd thee Inspire With such wild Flames , instead of Lambent Fire ? In Maiden Breasts no Lamp so fiercely burns , But mild as those enclos'd in Vestal Virgins Urns. Of things Ridiculous , I dare maintain Nothing 's more Sottish , Frivolous , and Vain , Than to take Satyr ill , and think w' are gaul'd , When we are not the obscene things w' are call'd . If of Ill Wives he talks , what is 't to me , While I walk hand in hand with Modesty ? But She that does resent it , that Ill Wife is She : And this may be laid down a Standard Rule , To whom e're it relates , Punk , Pimp , or Fool : What Fame to thy Defence then can accrue , But that his Satyr sat too close on You , And like strait Stays , made you unlace for Air ? Who sees a Pounded Beast , does know why it came there ; Sated with lawful Grass he leapt the bound : O let us never quit that Fertile Ground , Where virtuous Herbage springs and Honor rais'd the Mound . Up from the Slave to those that wait on Kings , His Satyr took her course with steady wings , And from the Womb of Vice deliver'd monstrous things ; Such as for many Ages there lay hid , And all , but the like piercing Eye , forbid To see the Secrets of that dark Divan , And quite unvail the inmost Mind of Man ; His Pride , Ambition , Rage , Intemperance , Lust , And the hard Fate of him that dares be Just ; Now in an Age that does such Guilt reveal , He 's not reliev'd though he to Gods appeal , Thou see'st 't was hate of Vice , not Love to spite , That sharpt his pointed Spleen and bid him write : A Perjur'd Nymph abus'd him , broke his Rest , When her , and all like her , he Banisht from his Breast : Who dare accuse him for so just a Deed ? Or with such senseless Rigour can proceed To blame him that preserves the Corn , by rooting out the Weed ? That Virtue he respects is understood , For who pulls down the Ill , in that does raise the Good. Yet if thou wer 't resolv'd to write , to show Thy Parts , which don't distinguish Friend from Foe , Why was 't in Rhime ? ( but Rage all Sense devours ) That Scandal to their Sex , and worse to Ours : 'T is not as formerly , when 't was the use For Verse t' instruct , as now 't is to traduce ; As from thy own Example can'st thou plead excuse ? Hast thou not heard what Rochester declares ? That Man of Men , for who with him compares , Must be what e're the Graces can bestow Upon their chiefest Favourite below : He tells thee , Whore's the like Reproachful Name , As Poetress — the luckless Twins of Shame . Fly then those Seas , or look to be undone ; The Rock on which the Argosie does run And find its Fate , our weak-built Skiffs shou'd shun . 'T is not , I say , as when Orinda wrote , With all the Grace and Majesty of thought ; So well proportion'd her soft strain appears , She pleas'd our Eyes , not more than that our Ears ; Rapt we all stood , nor knew which to prefer , Whether to Read her Verse , or gaze on Her ! She reapt the Harvest of Immortal Fame , And who comes after can but have the Gleanings of a Name . Our Poesies chang'd from what , in her , 't was then , For Songs obscene fit not a Womans Pen , Let 's leave that Guilty Glory to the Men ; Nor Satyr is our Province , let 'em throw Their Darts , while we are Chaste we ward the blow : O let us not be Snakes beneath the Flower , Nor ill , because we know 't is in our Power , But keep in thought , the last the scrutinizing hour ; For after Death a strict Account succeeds ; Our Idle Thoughts are punisht with our Evil Deeds . In Virtuous Authors , Virtuous Thoughts we find , For what is Written paints the Writer's Mind , And partly points how all his Passions are enclin'd : Thus thro' Orinda's Works does brightly shine , A Spark that shows her Nature was Divine , And alwaies on Sublime Idea's fixt , Her Heav'nly Thoughts with grosser things unmixt : And thus what thou hast writ , in every Page , Does shew a wild , fantastick , groundless Rage . A mean Revenge , beneath a Woman's Pen , How much then to be slighted by the Men ? Then thou dost talk of Love at such a rate , As thou hast shew'd it , 't is what we shou'd hate , A Freakish , Hair-Brain'd , Bess of a Bedlam State. Love , the soft Seal , by which alone we find Something of Angel stampt on Humankind ! While we , like Wax , to its Impression bow , And find our Souls are mixt , we know not how ! While lifted high , above all sordid Fears , W' are disencumber'd of our Clog of Cares ; Agreeing Minds does make more Musick than the Spheres : Thus like Translated Saints to Bliss we flee , Rapt up to the Third Heav'n of Extasie ! This is the Fate that Constancy does prove , And such , in its true Nature , is a guiltless Love : But in thy Numbers 't is a Lapland Witch , Sailing thro' Air , astride , upon a Switch , Mumbling of Wicked , but successless Charms ; In vain , the Dart recoils , and she that threw it harms . How like a Fiend does Ariadne speak ? Or how like thee ? ( no fitter Parallel we 'll seek ) In such Extravagant and Pettish starts , She 'd sooner make our sides ake than our Hearts . Leave , leave thy Scribling Itch , and write no more , When you began 't was time to give it o're : What has this Age produc'd from Female Pens , But a wide boldness that outstrides the Mens ? Succeeding Times will see the difference plain , And wonder at a Style so loose and vain , And what shou'd make the Women rise so high In love of Vice , and scorn of Modesty : For why art thou concern'd a Common Whore Shou'd be turn'd off , and Cully-kept no more ? If by kept Jilts Men lose their Cash and time , And oft , alas ! what is much more sublime , To leave 'em is one step t' attone the Crime : Of Cashier'd Punks , so feelingly you speak , You have been serv'd , sure , some such slippery trick , And so by sad Experience ( as you sing ) Know but too much of it — a barbarous thing ! It seems a Keeper's not dislik'd by thee , That he is Faulty , but that he 'll be Free From Faults , his Strumpets Insolence and Pride , And Lust , perhaps the Foul Disease beside . Thy Language all along is mena and vile ; We see thy want of Manners in thy Style . Thy words are boist'rous , but their Sense is weak , Thou writ'st with the same Boldness Bullies speak ; Coherence there is none ; Thy Genius warms No more than now thy Face , at Fifty , Charms : To all a Nusance , to thy self a Plague , And five year more makes thee a Toothless Hag ; But I forbear thee ; and may he forbear You write against , and not be too severe : If such Scurrillity you long pursue , No Creatures e're will be so maul'd as you ; Thy Faults and Follies he 'll to all make plain , And in his Angry , Bold , Satyrick Vein , Set a worse Mark on thee than God on Cain . But may he spare thee — here she wou'd give o're : And I will spare thee — for I 'le say no more . FINIS .