BOILEAU'S SATIRE ON WOMEN AND ON MARRIAGE

(Abridged) Translated by Sir Tollemache Sinclair.

What will be your fate if your wife's full of caprice, Of scandal fond, and only known for vice not peace, Less for its pleasures than to cause you false alarm, And slightly vicious thinks that flirting is no harm ? Between ourselves say, would you see with tranquil mind. The Town and Court frequent your home, because she's "kind. Excepting you, all meet with a reception bland, One gains a word, another has a glance or hand. It is to you alone that she is proud and dull. To others she is gay and pleased without a lull. It is for them that she displays gold and brocade, That at your house rouged and pearl-powder'd she'll parade. And that a skilful hand with such great artifice Erects with her dark hair so grand an edifice,

In her room, be advised, don't enter any day, If you desire with your chaste wife in turn to play, Wait, husband, be discreet till she with well-dressed hair, Has in the evening shown you her complexion fair. And in some handkerchiefs stained by cosmetics dear Sends to the wash her roses and her lilies sere, Then enter, but if wise in her proud presence dread Don't speak of her extravagance since you were wed. Go with your purse in hand, give quickly ready coin, For if with praise a little discontent you join. You'll see her then oppressed with grief and bathed in tears, Extol her virtue for which no reward appears, 0 fie I A husband won't supply her wants so few, Ne'er has woman cost less, one besides so true. For but four hundred pounds a year, and this is all. Her outlay for her clothes' ti s surely very small. What will you answer ? I can see by each excuse You say you are convinced for fear of her abuse. Resigned and humbled her dire anger to appease You let her fill her hands with your gold at her ease. Besides, the odious shrew so reckless and abrupt, ' Say, have I sketched her who's fantastic or con upt. Who loving me at dawn oft hates me at midnight. And have I painted her who's false, or is a fright ? Have I yet shown you her who's pert and oft has lied ? Or traced the dull old woman with o'erweening pride, Who twenty years since marriage most absurdly tries Still from her husband bored to claim a lover's sighs. Have I a handsome woman shown you, full of life. Who at some rich repast, perspiring, drops her knife, And makes e'en an admirer with a nose too keen. Dread her breath full of garlic and tobacco mean ? Have I described those women who play cards and roam, Each one of whom receives all gamblers at her home ? And bears slights which would ne'er be borne as she must feel, By hostesses of inns at five pence for each meal ? Have I yet told you of those women without heart. Those monsters full of gall from whom e'en brutes would part Who feeling for their offspring nothing but disgust. Are angry without cause to their own blood unjust. And always in a rage by murmurs rendered hard, Strike in their children the spouse whom they hate, not guard, And of their home a hell make, where there is no peace, A place of grief, of tears and cries, which seldom cease ? Have I the superstitious drawn, so fond of strife. The pedant full of pride, the tiresome townsman's wife, She who talks solely of her dog or cat in doors, She who forever nonsense talks and greatly bores. Of such are thousands ; but my pen at last is tired. And by the greater number cannot be inspired, Believe me, to appease her some means you must find, Or soon perhaps one may see you, e'er peace is signed. Under the weight of lawsuits prostrate, in despair. Sad and alone, thin, dry and ruined, full of care. In your misfortunes thinking oft yourself to hang. And then compelled to take her back ; Fate's direst pang !