T. R. Smith, comp. Poetica Erotica: Rare and Curious Amatory Verse. 1921–22.
A Satire against Love
By Alexander Ratcliff(London. 1705) THOU doting fond besotted amorous fool; | |
| Shame to thy sex, return again to school, | |
| A whining lover is a sorry tool. | |
| Learn a new lesson, vex thyself no more, | |
| Kick that blind bastard Cupid out of door, | 5 |
| His mother Venus was a common whore. | |
| What is’t that makes thy sense and reason stray? | |
| And fondly bears thy captive soul away? | |
| Is it her beauty makes thy heart her prey? | |
| The fairest face that ever nature made, | 10 |
| A little sickness soon will make it fade, | |
| ’Tis naught but worms and dust in masquerade. | |
| Or do you on your mistress’ virtue dote? | |
| Tell me, I should be very glad to know it, | |
| What virtue dwells beneath a petticoat? | 15 |
| Women are strange dissemblers: They’ll appear | |
| So sweetly innocent and good, you’d swear | |
| They were all angels, when they devils are. | |
| Doth she a magazine of wealth command, | |
| Fetched from the bowels of the sea and land, | 20 |
| The Oriental pearl, and Indian sand? | |
| Those glittering toys indeed may please the eyes | |
| Of some base miser; but the brave and wise | |
| Place their content beyond such fooleries. | |
| Fill me a bowl with some rich Grecian wine, | 25 |
| That sprightly nectar shall my wit refine, | |
| And make me bravely act the libertine. | |
| In Bacchanalian feasts I’ll sorrows drown; | |
| And when my blood grows warm I’ll range the town, | |
| And seize on all I meet, fair, black, or brown. | 30 |
| Women by nature were or at first designed, | |
| To be enjoyed by man, and thou shalt find, | |
| If this proves cross, the next will be more kind. | |
| Their inclination’s strong what e’er they say, | |
| And hate who court the dull Platonic way; | 35 |
| That monsieur pleases best, who’s brisk and gay. | |
| No longer then in whining language court— | |
| But if your mistress does deny you sport, | |
| Ravish her first, and then she’ll thank you for ’t. | |
| Perhaps she’ll faintly strive and cry, ‘you men | 40 |
| Are wondrous rude—I vow you shant,’—and then | |
| Swear that you never shall come there again. | |
| The deed once done; she’ll feign herself perplext: | |
| ‘Fie! you’re wondrous naught—Indeed I’m vext, | |
| But prithee dear, when shall I see thee next?’ | 45 |
| With cunning arts, thus they inveagle man: | |
| But they shall never more my soul trappan, | |
| Catch me again you gypsies if you can. | |
| To spend our precious time ’twixt hope and fear, | |
| And let a paltry woman domineer, | 50 |
| ’Tis better be a vassal in Algier. | |