John Oldham: A SATYR Upon a WOMAM, who by her Falshood and Scorn was the Death of my Friend.
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NO she shall ne're escape, if Gods there be,
Unless they perjur'd grow and false as she;
Though no strange judgment yet the murd'ress seize
To punish her, and quit the partial Skies:
Though no revenging light'ning yet has flasht
From thence, that might her criminal beauties blast:
Though they in their old lustre still prevail
By no disease, nor guilt it self made pale.

Guilt, which blackest Moors themselves but own,
Would make through all their night new blushes dawn:
Though that kind soul, who now augments the blest,
Thither too soon by her unkindness chas'd:
(Where may it be her smallest and lightest doom,
(For that's not half my curse) never to come;)
Though he, when prompted by the high'st de|spair,
Ne're mention'd her without an Hymn or Prayer,
And could by all her scorn be forc'd no more
Than Martyrs to revile what they adore.
Who, had he [illeg.] curst her with his dying breath,
Had done but just, and Heaven had forgave:
Though [illeg.] ill-made [...]aw no Sentence has ordain'd
For her, no Statute has her Guilt arraign'd.
(For [...], Womens scorn, and Doctor's [...],
All by a [...] way of murder kill.)

Though she from justice of all these go free,
And boast perhaps in her success, and cry,
'Twas but a little h[...]less perjury:
Yet thinks she not she still secure shall prove,
Or that none dare avenge an injur'd love:
I rise in judgment, am to be to her
Both Witness, Judge, and Executioner:
Arm'd with dire Satyr, and resentful spite,
I come to haunt her with the ghosts of Wit.
My ink unbid starts out, and flies on her
Like blood upon some touching murderer:
And shou'd that fail, rather than want, I wou'd
Like Hags, to curse her, write in my own blood.
Ye spiteful pow'rs (if any there can be,
That boast a worse and keener spite than I)
Assist with malice, and your mighty aid
My sworn Revenge, and help me Rhime her dead:
Grant I [...] Infamy,
So plain, so deeply grav'd on her, that she,

Her Skill, Patches, nor Paint, all joyn'd can hide,
And which shall lasting as her Soul abide:
Grant my rank hate may such strong poison cast,
That every breath may taint, and rot and blast,
Till one large gang'rene quite o'respread her fame
With foul contagion, till her odious name
Spit at and curst by every mouth like mine,
Be terror to her self and all her line.
Vil'st of that viler Sex, who damn'd us all!
Ordain'd to cause and plague us for our fall!
WOMAN! nay worse! for she can nought be said
But Mummy by some Devil inhabited:
Not made in Heavens Mint, but basely coin'd,
She wears an humane image stampt on fiend;
And whoso Marriage would with her contract,
Is Witch by Law, and that a meer compact:
Her Soul (if any Soul in her there be)
By Hell was breath'd into her in a lye,
And its whole stock of falshood there was lent,
[illeg.] As if hereafter to be true it meant:

Bawd Nature taught her jilting, when she made,
And by her make designed for the trade:
Hence 'twas she daub'd her with a painted Face,
That she at once might better cheat and please
All those gay charming looks that court the eye,
Are but an ambush to hid treachery;
Mischief adorn'd with pomp and smooth disguise,
A painted skin stuff'd full of guile and lyes,
Within a gawdy Case, a nasty Soul,
Like T--- of quality in a gilt Close-stool:
Such on a Cloud those flatt'ring colours are,
Which only serve to dress a Tempest fair.
So men upon this Earths fair surface dwell,
Within are Fiends, and at the center Hell:
Court-promises, the Leagues which States-men make
With more convenience and more ease to break,
The Faith a Jesuite in Allegiance swears,
Or a Town-jilt to keeping Coxcombs bears,
Are firm and certain all compar'd with hers:

Early in falshood, at her Font she lied,
And should even then for perjury been tried:
Her Conscience stretch'd, and open as the Stews,
But laughs at Oaths, and plays with solemn Vows,
And at her mouth swallows down perjur'd breath,
More glib than bits of lechery beneath:
Less serious known when she doth most protest,
Than thoughts of arrantest Bustoons in jest:
More cheap than the vile mercenariest Squire,
That pli[...]s for Half-crown F[...]es at Westminster;
And trades in [illeg.] staple Oaths, and Swears to hire:
[...]ss g[...]lt than hers, less b[...]ch of Oath and Word
Has stood alost, and look'd through [...] [...]ance|bo[...]d;
And he that trus[...]s her in a Death-bed-Prayer,
Has [...] to m[...]rit and save any thing but her.
[...] her gilt d[...]scription does out go,
[...] it out-strip my Curses too;

Curses, which may they equal my just hate,
My wish, and her desert, be each so great,
Each heard like Prayers, and Heaven make 'em fate.
First for her Beauties, which the mischief brought,
May she affected, they be borrow'd thought,
By her own hand not that of Nature wrought:
Her Credit, Honour, Portion, Health, and those
Prove light and frail as her broke Faith and Vows:
Some base unnam'd Disease, her Carkass foul,
And make her Body ugly as her Soul.
Cankers and Ulcers eat her till she be
Shun'd like Infection, loath'd like Infamy.
Strength quite expir'd, may she alone retain,
The snuff of life, may that unquench'd remain,
As in the damn'd to keep her fresh for pain:
Hot Lust light on her, and the plague of Pride
On that, this ever scorn'd, as that denied:
Ach, anguish, horror, grief, dishonour, shame
Pursue at once her body, soul and fame:

If e're the Devil-love must enter her
(For nothing sure but Fiends can enter there)
May she a just and true tormenter find,
And that like an ill-conscience rack her mind:
Be some diseas'd and ugly wretch her fate,
She doom'd to love of me, whom all else hate.
May he hate her, and may her destiny
Be to despair, and yet love on and die;
O[...] [...]o invent some wittier punishment,
May he to plague her, out of spite consent;
May the old fumbler, though disabled quite,
Have strength to give her Claps, but no de|light:
May he of her unjustly jealous be
For one that's worse and uglier far than he:
May's impotence balk and torment her lust,
Yet scarcely her to dreams or wishes trust:
Forc'd to be chast, may she suspected be,
Share none o'th pleasure, all the infamy.

In fine, that I all curses may complete
(For I've but curs'd in jest and rallied yet)
Whate're the Sex deserves, or feels, or fears,
May all those plagues be hers, and only hers;
Whate're great favourites turn'd out of doors,
Sham'd Cullies, bilk'd and disappointed Whores,
Or losing Gamesters vent, what Curses e're
Are spoke by sinners raving in despair:
All those fall on her, as they're all her due,
Till spite can't think, nor Heaven inflict anew:
May then (for once I will be kind and pray)
No madness take her use of Sense away;
But may she in full strength of reason be,
To feel and understand her misery;
Plagu'd so, till she think damning a release,
And humbly pray to go to Hell for ease:
Yet may not all these suff'rings here atone
Her sin, and may she still go sinning on,

Tick up in Perjury, and run o'th' score,
Till on her Soul she can get trust no more:
Then may the stupid and repentless die,
And Heaven it self forgive no more than I,
But so be damn'd of meer [illeg.] necessity .
FINIS.

Last poem in a collection on EEBO

Author: Oldham, John, 1653-1683. [ Author page in Literature Online ]
Title: Satyrs upon the Jesuits written in the year 1679, upon occasion of the plot, together with the Satyr against vertue, and some other pieces by the same hand.
Date: 1681
Bibliographic name / number: Wing / O244
Bibliographic name / number: Arber's Term cat. / I 418
Physical description: [8], 154, [1] p.
Copy from: Henry E. Huntington Library and Art Gallery
Reel position: Wing / 614:02