Mysogynus: OR, A SATYR UPON WOMEN.
IN DOMINO CONFIDO
LONDON, Printed for John Langly, Bookseller in Oxford. MDCLXXXII.
MYSOGYNUS: OR, A Satyr upon Women.
LAte come from
Derby's Peak, where Women do
Beat their poor Cuckold Husbands black and blue;
And, which is worse, make nothing of it too:
I'm mad to see the poor men thus abus'd,
And would by all means have them better us'd.
And now were I outlandish, then I'd rant
With liberty of Tongue, which now I want;
I'd force a smart Burlesque on those slie Creatures
That thus Tongue-tyed us with their slier features.
Poor Country-men! not only chous'd of their right hand,
(They can't the priviledge of the Wall command.)
Not only cow'd, but to laugh at them too;
They've gull'd them of their wordst' express their woe:
[Page 2] What shall I do for
English words t' employ
On this dire theme, which Foreigners enjoy:
Foreigners, that know how to use command,
Like
Caesar, when they've got the upper hand.
But we are mute, or have our language lost,
Which these Decoys have to themselves ingrost.
You'd think, they'll scold in such a lasting stile,
That one poor Tongue could not serve all the while.
Till then, I've made my Satyr quite compleat,
I'll shake the Letters of the Alphabet:
But I do want for what I would contrive,
Unless you will allow me twenty five;
But our School-Dames allow but four, and say,
That after Z there's no
Et caetera.
Conscious that if
Et caetera should be known,
We should prove scolds in telling them their own.
How haughtily upon the
English-man they tread,
Stark drunk with Pride, they ride a free Horse dead.
We'll ne'r endure't, come subject Hearts,
I'll paraphrase upon a Womans parts;
And when I cannot think what bad enough to say,
I'll brand her name with black
Et caetera.
Whate're was left unfit in the Creation
To make a Toad, after its ugly fashion,
Of scrapings from unfinished Creatures had,
Sure was the body of a Woman made:
Yet there's some finer Atoms daub'd upon,
Which makes her seem so beauteous to look on.
[Page 3] Nor better is a Womans end, nor can,
Born only to Night-mare the Soul of Man.
Nor is he only plagued by her birth,
She is an Universal Curse unto the Earth.
Some say, the ground with barrenness is curst,
Where in the Morn she strains her body first.
Surely she was not th' end of the Creation,
But made by th' by, huddled at any fashion.
She's some imperfect thing, it needs must follow,
She sounds so loud, impertinently hollow:
So shrill and empty, that you'd swear i'faith
She'd no more Soul in her than a Cannon hath;
Unless inhabited by incarnate Devils,
Sent to disturb mens peace with their loud evils.
You'd think that she was made, so fair her face,
Only for to officiate the Devils place:
Why are we men not fearful at her sight,
As at the Devils walking in the night:
The one as hurtful as the other, nay
She is more Devil of the two, they say.
In the beginning of the World, says one,
When man did absolutely rule alone,
When there was no such thing as Woman known,
To be mans partner in his Regal Throne,
When Man was gotten not with Copulation,
But Men spawn'd Men, after a brisker fashion;
A more ingenious way of Propagation:
[Page 4] When Men were bent, whatever stop was given,
And
nolens volens, had gone all to Heaven;
Then threw the Devil these same Golden Balls
To stop his full career with gentle falls:
Then first was man bewitch'd; then first
Did man make Reason truckle to his Lust;
Then first was Man bed-ridden with these Devils,
Certainly of all, this sure the worst of Evils.
Infernal Imps, I thought, but now and then,
Were wont to haunt the seats of living men;
But now these Spirits incarnate, are so bold
They are familiar, and will have, and hold
Of whatsoever's his, and will controul,
Where e're he goes or comes, his haunted Soul.
Woman! What shall I say? Infernal Creature:
Thou'st so degenerated mans soft Nature,
That he has quite forgot his Primitive state,
And thinks it natural to copulate
With an Hell-bred Familiar, (such his fate)
And counts his Off-spring all Legitimate.
Think with the Atheist, that there is no God,
Nor can this cunning Creature be his Rod,
Sent down at second thoughts to plague poor men,
I'll whip her fame as bad, I'll warrant then;
I will invent some wicked thing upon her,
That you would think impossible to sham on her;
To make her what she is, one way or t'other,
I'll make her ragged Atoms t' hang together:
[Page 5] Then let us strive to make a tall, a proper,
A fair, deceitful, that is, a Woman of her;
Who can't a necessary good commence,
Because she is a being came by chance;
So may Men pray that some Chance would surround her,
And take her there, where Chance, her Maker, found her.
And now within so boundless, huge a place,
Whose vast immensity admits no space,
To be call'd up or down, (gone to be lost)
Thousands of Atoms eternally are tost;
So that I do despair amidst them all,
Of finding out Womans original.
Thus spying Nature labouring, I find,
The large frame begun within my larger mind,
I see things coming gradually to perfection,
At length compleated by coacervation:
Nor had this Joynted Baby of my mind,
Scarce all its shuffled parts combin'd;
But straight some unforc'd Particles we see,
That will with no part of the frame agree,
Which hookt together by themselves, became
The imperfect thing that Men do
Woman name;
Hence 'tis, we in her composition find
Such a strange medley made of every kind;
From Man a snip of Rationality,
The rest from Beasts, the Goat, and Chatter-Pye.
Then whate're Nature thought unfit to be
Mixt with the substance of the Creature, she
[Page 6] Design'd to be th' Master-piece of her Art,
Doth all lie centred in a Womans Heart;
All the crookt Atoms, and the rough, that joyn'd,
Raise Malice, Fear, and Passions in the mind;
All those from whose cross disposition rise
Envy and Hate, Despair and Jealousies,
Nature rejected, as unfit to be
Ingredients of Man, the Creature she
Intended for the Worlds Epitome:
Then whatsoever's left, that can produce
A Hellish mould, fit for the Devils use;
Whatever's Ill, Depraved, or what not
That is so thought, falls not to Womans lot:
Evil is so ingrafted in her parts, you'd swear
She'd not one dram of good to boast of there;
Her wicked qualities, which we think occult,
From th' disposition of her parts result:
She'll lie, and cog, and flatter with the best,
Though Nature otherwise teaches Humane Breast;
Woman is so unnatural a Beast.
She is 'gainst Nature so entire a Sinner,
It is impossible for goodness to be in her;
All the depravity that is, controul,
And have predominancy in a Womans Soul,
Kneaded, and woven in her parts within,
And are inseparable as her Skin.
When careful Nature had the World quite ended,
Sound Wind and Limb, then she had it befriended,
[Page 7] If she had quite expell'd this rotten part,
Which so corrupts all other to the Heart;
Then the straight-limb'd World might chance perhaps
To have liv'd strong, and free from all her Claps;
Nay, t'would have been eternal, for I'm sure,
What hath no cause of corruption, will for e're endure:
Such would the World be, had not Woman been;
For all Corruption, Putrefaction, Sin,
And what is worse, if worse there be, all came
From Woman, and Woman as their Parent, claim;
Like
Prometheus Vulture, she feeds on Mans poor Breast;
Like Brass, she cankers some, and eats the rest.
She'll kill, as does a Basilisk, or worse if't can,
Insensibly she blinds, and burns the Man.
Her outside's fair and pleasing, when the while
She kills as craftily as the Crocodile;
Usurps his right, raigns o're her fellow slaves,
Nor won't admit her Lord to go her halves;
She alone was the cause, when she usurp't the Throne,
Nor any other was't, that Hell it self was known.
Whate're's irregular done, 'tis she doth do't,
Univerfal Mischief is her Attribute.
Now, Reader, if thou hast what's worse to say,
Pray say't, for that is hers,
Et caetera.
FINIS.