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But should'st thou fearch the spacious world around, Yet one good woman were not to be found.

Thus fays the King who knew your wickedness; The fon of Sirach teftifies no lefs.

So may fome wildfire on your bodies fall,
Or fome devouring plague confume you all ;
As well you view the Leacher in the tree,
And well this honourable knight you fee:
But fince he's blind and old, (a helpless cafe)
His fquire fhall cuckold him before your face.
Now by my own dread majefty I swear,
And by this awful fcepter which I bear,
No impious wretch shall 'scape unpunish'd long,
That in my presence offers fuch a wrong.
I will this inftant undeceive the knight,
And, in the very act, restore his fight:
And set the strumpet here in open view,
A warning to these Ladies, and to you,

And all the faithlefs fex, for ever to be true.
And will you fo, reply'd the Queen, indeed?
Now, by my mother's foul, it is decreed,

She fhall not want an answer at her need.

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For her, and for her daughters, I'll engage,
And all the fex in each fucceeding age';
Art fhall be theirs to varnish an offence,
And fortify their crimes with confidence.
Nay, were they taken in a strict embrace,
Seen with both eyes, and pinion'd on the place;
All they fhall need is to proteft, and fwear,
Breath a soft sigh, and drop a tender tear;
Till their wife husbands, gull'd by arts like thefe,
Grow gentle, tractable, and tame as geefe,

What tho' this flandrous Few, this Solomon, Call'd women fools, and knew full many a one? The wifer wits of later times declare,

How constant, chaft, and virtuous, women are:
Witness the martyrs, who refign'd their breath,
Serene in torments, unconcern'd in death;
And witness next what Roman authors tell,
How Arria, Portia, and Lucretia fell.

But fince the facred leaves to all are free,
And men interpret texts, why fhou'd not we?

By

By this no more was meant, than to have shown,
That fov'reign goodness dwells in Him alone';
Who only is, and is but only one.

But grant the worst; shall women then be weigh'd
By ev'ry word that Solomon has faid?

What tho' this King (as ancient story boasts)
Built a fair temple to the Lord of hosts ;
He ceas'd at last his Maker to adore,

And did as much for Idol-gods, or more.
Beware what lavish praises you confer
On a rank leacher and idolater ;

Whofe reign indulgent God, fays holy writ,
Did but for David's righteous fake permit;
David, the monarch after heav'ns own mind,
Who lov'd our fex, and honour'd all our kind.

Well, I'm a woman, and as fuch must speak; Silence would fwell me, and my heart would break. Know then, I scorn your dull authorities, Your idle wits, and all their learned lies.

By heav'n, those authors are our fex's foes,

Whom, in our right, I must, and will oppose.

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Nay (quoth the King) dear Madam be not wroth; I yield it up; but fince I gave my oath, That this much-injur'd knight again fhou'd fee; It must be done----I am a King, faid he, And one, whofe faith has ever facred been. And fo has mine, (fhe faid)----I am a Queen! Her answer she shall have, I undertake; And thus an end of all difpute I make: Try when you lift; and you fhall find, my Lord, It is not in our fex to break our word.

We leave them here in this heroic ftrain, And to the knight our ftory turns again; Who in the garden, with his lovely May, Sung merrier than the Cuckow or the Jay: This was his fong; "Oh kind and constant be, "Constant and kind I'll ever prove to thee.

Thus finging as he went, at last he drew By easy steps to where the Peartree grew: The longing dame look'd up, and spy'd her Love Full fairly perch'd among the boughs above.

She stopp'd, and fighing: oh good Gods, she cry'd, What pangs, what fudden shoots diftend

my

fide?

O for

O for that tempting fruit, fo fresh, so green;
Help, for the love of heav'n's immortal Queen!
Help, dearest lord, and fave at once the life
Of thy poor infant, and thy longing wife!

Sore figh'd the knight to hear his Lady's cry,
But cou'd not climb, and had no fervant nigh:
Old as he was, and void of eyesight too,
What cou'd, alas! the helplefs husband do?
And must I languish then, fhe faid, and die,
Yet view the lovely fruit before my eye?
At least, kind Sir, for charity's sweet sake,
Vouchfafe the trunk between your arms to take;
Then from your back I might afcend the tree;
Do you but floop, and leave the reft to me.

With all my foul, he thus reply'd again,
I'd fpend my deareft blood to café thy pain;
With that, his back against the trunk he bent,
She feiz'd a twig, and up the tree she went.
Now prove your patience, gentle Ladies all !
Nor let on me your heavy anger fall:
'Tis truth I tell, tho' not in phrafe refin'd;
Tho' blunt my tale, yet honeft is my mind.

What

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