She is not bad that hath defire to ill,
But the that hath no pow'r to rule that will.
Beaumont and Fletcher's Woman Hater. All we that are call'd women, know as well As men, it were a far more noble thing, To grace where we are grac'd, and give refpect There where we are refpected; yet we practife A wilder courfe, and never bend our eyes On men with pleasure, till they find the way To give us a neglect: then we, too late Perceive, the lofs of what we might have had, And doat to death.
Beaumont and Fletcher's Scornful Lady.
2. Tell me, what is that only thing,
For which all women long:
Yet having what they moft defire,
To have it, does them wrong?
A. 'Tis not to be chaft, nor fair,
Such gifts, malice may impair ;
Richly trimm'd, to walk or ride,
Or to wanton unespy'd;
To preferve an honest name,
And fo, to give it up to fame;
These are toys: in good or ill,
They defire to have their will;
Yet when they have it, they abuse it,
For they know not how to use it.
Beaumont and Fletcher's Women Pleas'd;
Many glorious women that are fam'd
For masculine vertue, have been vitious;
Only a happier filence did betide them:
She hath no faults, who hath the art to hide them.
Women are caught as you take tortoises:
She must be turn'd on her back.
This is the tyranny we men endure;
Women can make us mad, but none can cure.
Webfter and Rowley's Thracian Wonder -It fhall fuffice;
By women man firft fell, by them I'll rife.
Women and honefty are as near ally'd,
As parfons lives are to their doctrines,
One and the fame.
Never regard the paflions of a woman :
The're wily creatures, and have learnt this wit,
Where they love moft, beft to diffemble it.
Smith's Heator of Germany.
How have I wrong'd thee! oh who would abufe
Your Sex, which truly knows ye! O women,
Were we not born of ye? fhould we not then
Honour ye? nurs'd by ye, and not regard
Ye? begotten on you, and not love ye?
Made for ye, and not feek ye? and fince we
Were made before ye, fhould we not love and
Admire ye as the laft, and therefore perfect'it work
Of nature? Man was made, when nature was
But an apprentice, but woman, when she
Was a skilful miftrefs of her art; therefore
Curfed is he that doth not admire thofe
Paragons, thofe models of heav'n, angels
On earth, goddeffes in fhape: by their loves
We live in double breath, even in our
Offspring after death. Are not all vices
Mafculine, and vertues feminine? are
Not the Muses the loves of the learned?
Do not all noble fpirits follow the Graces,
Because they are women? there's but one phoenix,
And the's a female: is not the princess
And foundrefs of good arts, Minerva, born
Of the brain of higheft Jove, a woman?
Have not thefe women the face of love, the
Tongue of perfuafion, the body of delight ?"
O divine perfection'd woman, whose praises
No tongue can full exprefs, for that the matter
Doth exceed the labour! O, if to be
A woman be fo excellent, what is
It then to be a woman enrich'd by
Nature, made excellent by education,
Noble by birth, chaft by vertue, adorn'd
By beauty! a fair woman which is the
Ornament of heaven, the grace of earth,
The joy of life, and the delight of all fenfe,
Ev'n the very fummum bonum of man's life.
Of vary'd torture is a woman's heart?
How like a peacock's tail, with diff'rent lights
They differ from themselves! the very air
Alters the afpen humours of their bloods,
Now excellent good, now fuper-excellent bad.
Sir Giles Goofe-Cap
Creatures the most imperfect, nothing of
Themselves, only patch'd up to cozen and
Gull men, borrowing their hair from one, and
Complexions from another! nothing
'Their own that's pleafing; all diffembled, not So much, but their very breath is fophisticated With amber-pellets, and kiffing caufes.
Harder task, than those bold fpirits, that did
Undertake to steal the great Turk into Christendom.
A woman! fhe's an angel at ten, a
Saint at fifteen, a devil at forty,
And a witch at fourfcore.
Sewetnam the Woman Hater.
But flesh and blood; the fame thing that will do
My lady good, will please her woman too.
John Ford's Lover's melancholy.
Here'
Here's th' unhappiness of woman still,
That having forfeited, in old time, their truff,
Now makes their faith fufpected, that are just.
Maflinger, Middleton, and Rowley's Old Law. O never love, except thou be belov'd!
For fuch an humour ev'ry woman feizeth,
She loves not him that 'plaineth, but that pleaseth.
When much thou lovest, most difdain comes on thee,
And when thou think'ft to hold her, the flies from thee:
She follow'd flies, fhe fled from, follows post,
And loveth belt, where fhe is hated most.
'Tis ever noted, both in maids and wives,
Their hearts and tongues are never relatives;
Hearts full of holes (fo elder shepherds feign)
As apter to receive, than to retain.
Brown's Paftorals.
Women, as well as men, retain defire,
But can diffemble more than men, their fire.
Truft not a woman! they have found the herb
To open locks; not brazen towers can hold 'em ;
Or if they get not loose, they have the vertue
Of loadftones; fhut up in a box, they'll draw
Cuftomers to them; nay, being dead and bury'd,
There is a Sufpicion they will break the grave;
Which puts fo many husbands to the charge
Of heavy ftones to keep their bad wives under.
Shirley's Conftant Maid.
The nature of women to be vext,
When they know any of their fervants court
Another; and that love they thought not worth
Their own reward, will fting 'em to the foul,
When 'tis tranflated where it meets with love :
And this will either break her stubborn heart,
Or humble her.
All mankind are alike to them;
And though we iron find
That never with a loadstone join'd,
'Tis not the iron's fault,
It i, because the loadstone yet was never brought.
If where a gentle bee hath fall'n
And labour'd to his pow'r,
A new fucceeds not to that flow'r,
But paffes by;
'Tis to be thought, the gallant elsewhere loads his thigh.
For till the flowers ready ftand,
One buzzes round about,
One lights, one taftes, gets in, gets out,
All, all ways use them,
Till all their fweets are gone, and all again refuse them.
I will not love one minute more, I swear,
No, not a minute; not a figh or tear
Thou gett'it from me, or one kind look again,
'Tho' thou fhould'ft court me to't, and would'it begin.
I will not think of thee, but as men do
Of debts and fins; and then, I'll curfe thee too:
For thy fake, woman fhall be now to me
Lefs welcome, than at midnight ghofts fhall be:
I'll hate fo perfectly, that it fhall be
Treafon, to love that man that loves a fhe ;
Nay, I will hate the very good, I fwear,
That's in thy fex, because it does lie there:
Their very vertue, grace, difcourfe, and wit,
And all for thee: what, wilt thou love me yet?
-Thefe filly women, when they feed
Our expectation fo high, do but like
Ignorant conjurers, that raife a fpirit:
Which handfomly they cannot lay again.
He is a parricide to his mother's name,
And with an im pious hand murthers her fame,
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