Poetry By English Women Page 8
To be to aught besides his money kind,
Who’s always positive in what is ill,
And still a slave to his imperious will: [10]
Averse to any thing he thinks will please,
Still sick, and still in love with his disease:
With fears, with discontent, with envy curst,
To all uneasy, and himself the worst:
A spiteful censor of the present age,
Or dully jesting, or deformed with rage […]
’Tis hard we should be by the men despised,
Yet kept from knowing what would make us prized:
Debarred from knowledge, banished from the schools,
And with the utmost industry bred fools. [20]
Laughed out of reason, jested out of sense,
And nothing left but native innocence:
Then told we are incapable of wit,
And only for the meanest drudgeries fit:
Made slaves to serve their luxury and pride,
And with innumerable hardships tried,
Till pitying Heav’n release us from our pain […]
They think, if we our thoughts can but express,
And know but how to work, to dance and dress,
It is enough, as much as we should mind, [30]
As if we were for nothing else designed,
But made, like puppets, to divert mankind.
O that my sex would all such toys despise;
And only study to be good, and wise […]
Through all the labyrinth of learning go,
And grow more humble, as they more do know.
By doing this, they will respect procure,
Silence the men, and lasting fame secure;
And to themselves the best companions prove,
And neither fear their malice, nor desire their love. [40]
To the Ladies
Wife and servant are the same,
But only differ in the name:
For when that fatal knot is tied,
When she the word Obey has said,
And man by law supreme has made,
Then all that’s kind is laid aside,
And nothing left but state and pride.
Fierce as an eastern prince he grows,
And all his innate rigour shows: [10]
Then but to look, to laugh, or speak,
Will the nuptial contract break.
Like mutes, she signs alone must make,
And never any freedom take.
But still be governed by a nod,
And fear her husband as her god:
Him still must serve, him still obey,
And nothing act, and nothing say,
But what her haughty lord thinks fit
Who, with the power, has all the wit. [20]
Then shun, oh! shun that wretched state,
And all the fawning flatt’rers hate.
Value yourselves, and men despise:
You must be proud, if you’ll be wise.
‘EPHELIA’
fl. 1679?
Her identity is not known – nor even how much that is attributed to her is by the one person (for instance, ‘To Bajazet’ is of uncertain attribution). She expresses admiration for Aphra Behn, and her ‘set’ was clearly linked with the ‘beau monde’. From the volume can be constructed the story of a protracted affair with a rakish older man, J.G., who jilted her and married abroad; her jealousy; her division between two men, and being jilted again.
Female Poems on Several Occasions (London, 1679, 1682).
On a Bashful Shepherd
I
Young Clovis by a happy chance,
His loved Ephelia spied,
In such a place, as might advance
His courage, and abate her pride:
With eyes that might have told his suit,
Although his bashful tongue was mute,
Upon her gazed he,
But the coy nymph, though in surprise,
Upon the ground fixing her eyes,
The language would not see. [10]
II
With gentle grasps he wooed her hand,
And sighed in seeming pain,
But this she would not understand,
His sighs were all in vain:
Then change of blushes next he tried,
And gave his hand freedom to slide
Upon her panting breast;
Finding she did not this control,
Unto her lips he gently stole,
And bid her guess the rest. [20]
III
She blushed, and turned her head aside,
And so much anger feigned,
That the poor shepherd almost died,
And she no breath retained:
Her killing frown so chilled his blood,
He like a senseless statue stood,
Nor further durst he woo,
And though his blessing was so near,
Checked by his modesty and fear,
He faintly let it go. [30]
To One that asked me why I loved J.G.
Why do I love? go, ask the glorious sun
Why every day it round the earth doth run:
Ask Thames and Tiber why they ebb and flow:
Ask damask roses why in June they blow:
Ask ice and hail the reason why they’re cold:
Decaying beauties, why they will grow old:
They’ll tell thee, Fate, that everything doth move,
Enforces them to this, and me to love.
There is no reason for our love or hate,
’Tis irresistible as death or fate; [10]
’Tis not his face; I’ve sense enough to see,
That is not good, though doted on by me:
Nor is’t his tongue that has this conquest won,
For that at least is equalled by my own:
His carriage can to none obliging be,
’Tis rude, affected, full of vanity:
Strangely ill natured, peevish and unkind,
Unconstant, false, to jealousy inclined:
His temper could not have so great a power,
’Tis mutable, and changes every hour: [20]
Those vigorous years that women so adore
Are past in him: he’s twice my age and more;
And yet I love this false, this worthless man,
With all the passion that a woman can;
Dote on his imperfections, though I spy
Nothing to love; I love, and know not why.
Since ’tis decreed in the dark book of Fate,
That I should love, and he should be ingrate.
Maidenhead Written at the request of a friend
At your entreaty, I at last have writ
This whimsy, that has nigh nonplussed my wit:
The toy I’ve long enjoyed, if it may
Be called t’enjoy, a thing we wish away;
But yet no more its character can give,
Than tell the minutes that I have to live:
’Tis a fantastic ill, a loathed disease,
That can no sex, no age, no person please:
Men strive to gain it, but the way they choose
T’obtain their wish, that and the wish doth lose; [10]
Our thoughts are still uneasy, till we know
What ’tis, and why it is desired so:
But th’first unhappy knowledge that we boast,
Is that we know, the valued trifle’s lost:
Thou dull companion of our active years,
That chill’st our warm blood with thy frozen fears:
How is it likely thou should’st long endure,
When thought it self the ruin may procure?
The short-lived tyrant, that usurp’st a sway
O’er woman-kind, though none thy pow’r obey, [20]
Except th’ill-natured, ugly, peevish, proud,
And these indeed, thy praises sing aloud:
But what’s the reason they obey so well?
But I forget, or have my subject lost:
Alas! thy being’s fancy at the most:
Though much desired, ’tis but seldom men
Court the vain blessing from a woman’s pen.
To a Proud Beauty*
Imperious fool! think not because you’re fair,
That you so much above my converse are,
What though the gallants sing your praises loud,
And with false plaudits make you vainly proud?
Though they may tell you all adore your eyes,
And every heart’s your willing sacrifice;
Or spin the flatt’ry finer, and persuade
Your easy vanity, that we were made
For foils to make your lustre shine more bright,
And must pay homage to your dazzling light, [10]
Yet know whatever stories they may tell,
All you can boast, is, to be pretty well;
Know too, you stately piece of vanity,
That you are not alone adored, for I
Fantastically might mince, and smile, as well
As you, if airy praise my mind could swell:
Nor are the loud applauses that I have,
For a fine face, or things that Nature gave;
But for acquired parts, a gen’rous mind,
A pleasing converse, neither nice nor kind: [20]
When they that strive to praise you most, can say
No more, but that you’re handsome, brisk and gay:
Since then my frame’s as great as yours is, why
Should you behold me with a loathing eye?
If you at me cast a disdainful eye,
In biting satire I will rage so high,
Thunder shall pleasant be to what I’ll write,
And you shall tremble at my very sight;
Warned by your danger, none shall dare again
Provoke my pen to write in such a strain. [30]
In the Person of a Lady, to Bajazet, Her Unconstant Gallant*
How far are they deceived, that hope in vain
A lasting lease of joys from love t’obtain?
All the dear sweets we’re promised, or expect,
After enjoyment turn to cold neglect:
Could love a constant happiness have known,
That mighty wonder had in me been shown;
Our passions were so favoured by Fate,
As if she meant them an eternal date:
So kind he looked, such tender words he spoke,
’Twas past belief such vows should e’er be broke: [10]
Fixed on my eyes, how often would he say
He could with pleasure gaze an age away.
When thought too great for words, had made him mute,
In kisses he would tell my hand his suit:
So strong his passion was, so far above
The common gallantries that pass for love:
At worst, I thought, if he unkind should prove,
His ebbing passion would be kinder far,
Than the first transports of all others are: [20]
Nor was my love weaker, or less than his;
In him I centered all my hopes of bliss:
For him, my duty to my friends forgot;
For him I lost – alas! what lost I not?
Fame, all the valuable things of life,
To meet his love by a less name than wife.
How happy was I then! how dearly blest!
When this great man lay panting on my breast,
Looking such things as ne’er can be expressed.
Thousand fresh loves he gave me every hour, [30]
While eagerly I did his looks devour:
Quite overcome with charms, I trembling lay,
At every look he gave, melted away;
I was so highly happy in his love,
Methought I pitied those that dwell above.
Think then, thou greatest, loveliest, falsest man,
How you have vowed, how I have loved, and then
My faithless dear, be cruel if you can.
How I have loved I cannot, need not tell;
No, every act has shown I loved too well. [40]
Since first I saw you, I ne’er had a thought
Was not entirely yours; to you I brought
My virgin innocence, and freely made
My love an offering to your noble bed:
Since when, you’ve been the star by which I’ve steered,
And nothing else but you, I’ve loved, or feared:
Your smiles I only lived by: and I must
When e’er you frown, be shattered into dust.
I cannot live on pity, or respect,
A thought so mean, would my whole frame infect, [50]
Less than your love I scorn, sir, to accept.
Let me not live in dull indiff’rency,
But give me rage enough to make me die:
For if from you I needs must meet my fate,
Before your pity, I would choose your hate.
ANNE KILLIGREW 1660–1685
Daughter of Judith and Dr Henry Killigrew, chaplain to the Duke of York; the dramatists Thomas and Sir William Killigrew were her uncles; Maid of Honour to Mary of Modena, and rather ostentatiously virtuous, though charming in her naïveté. Died of small-pox; Poems appeared in 1685, though dated 1686, with an eulogistic poem by Dryden (‘Thy father was transfus’d into thy blood: / So wert thou born into the tuneful strain…’).
Poems by Mrs. Anne Killigrew, 1686. Reprinted in facsimile by Richard Morton, intro. and ed., Gainesville, Fla.)
On a picture Painted by her self, representing two Nimphs of Diana’s, one in a Posture to Hunt, the other Batheing*
We are Diana’s virgin-train,
Descended of no mortal strain;
Our bows and arrows are our goods,
Our palaces, the lofty woods,
The hills and dales, at early morn,
Resound and echo with our horn;
We chase the hind and fallow-deer,
The wolf and boar both dread our spear;
In swiftness we outstrip the wind,
An eye and thought we leave behind; [10]
We fawns and shaggy satyrs awe;
To sylvan pow’rs we give the law:
Whatever does provoke our hate,
Our javelins strike, as sure as fate;
We bathe in springs, to cleanse the soil
Contracted by our eager toil,
In which we shine like glittering beams,
Or crystal in the crystal streams;
Though Venus we transcend in form,
No wanton flames our bosoms warm! [20]
If you ask where such wights do dwell,
In what blest clime, that so excel?
The poets only that can tell.
On Death
Tell me thou safest end of all our woe,
Why wretched mortals do avoid thee so:
Thou gentle drier o’th’afflicted’s tears,
Thou noble ender of the coward’s fears;
Thou sweet repose to lovers’ sad despair,
Thou calm t’ambition’s rough tempestuous care.
If in regard of bliss thou wert a curse,
And than the joys of Paradise art worse;
Yet after man from his first station fell,
And God from Eden Adam did expel, [10]
Thou wert no more an evil, but relief;
The balm and cure to ev’ry human grief:
Through thee, what man had forfeited before
He now enjoys, and ne’er can lose it more.
No subtle serpents in the grave betray,
Worms on the body there, not souls, do prey;
No vice there tempts, no terrors there affright,
No coz’ning sin affords a false delight:
No vain contentions do that peace annoy,
No fierce alarms break the lasting day. [20]
Ah since from thee so many blessings flow,
Such real good as life can never know;
Come when thou wilt, in thy affrighting’st dress,
Thy shape shall never make thy welcome less.
Thou may’st to joy, but ne’er to fear give birth,
Thou best, as well as certain’st thing on earth.
Fly thee? May travellers then fly their rest,
And hungry infants fly the proffered breast.
No, those that faint and tremble at thy name,
Fly from their good on a mistaken fame. [30]
Thus childish fear did Israel of old
From plenty and the Promised Land with-hold;
They fancied giants, and refused to go
When Canaan did with milk and honey flow.
Upon the saying that my verses were made by another*
Next Heaven my vows to thee (O sacred Muse!)
I offered up, nor didst thou them refuse.
O Queen of Verse, said I, if thou’lt inspire,
And warm my soul with thy poetic fire,
No love of gold shall share with thee my heart,
Or yet ambition in my breast have part,
More rich, more noble I will ever hold
The Muses’ laurel, than a crown of gold.
An undivided sacrifice I’ll lay
Upon thine altar, soul and body pay; [10]
Thou shalt my pleasure, my employment be,
And all I’ll make a holocaust to thee.
The deity that ever does attend
Prayers so sincere, to mine did condescend.
I writ, and the judicious praised my pen:
Could any doubt ensuing glory then?
What pleasing raptures filled my ravished sense?
How strong, how sweet, Fame, was thy influence?
And thine, False Hope, that to my flattered sight
Didst glories represent so near, and bright? [20]
By thee deceived, methought each verdant tree
Apollo’s transformed Daphne seemed to be;
And ev’ry fresher branch, and ev’ry bough
Appeared as garlands to empale my brow.
The learn’d in love say, Thus the winged boy