Though now at every altar they abound. I hear your cautious counsel; you would say, Keep close your women under lock and key:-- But, who shall keep those keepers? Women, nurst In craft; begin with those, and bribe them first. The sex is turned all whore; they love the game, And mistresses and maids are both the same. The poor Ogulnia, on the poet's day, Will borrow clothes and chair to see the play; She, who before had mortgaged her estate, And pawned the last remaining piece of plate. Some are reduced their utmost shifts to try; But women have no shame of poverty. They live beyond their stint, as if their store The more exhausted, would encrease the more: Some men, instructed by the labouring ant, Provide against the extremities of want; But womankind, that never knows a mean, Down to the dregs their sinking fortune drain: Hourly they give, and spend, and waste, and wear, And think no pleasure can be bought too dear. There are, who in soft eunuchs place their bliss, To shun the scrubbing of a bearded kiss, And 'scape abortion; but their solid joy Is when the page, already past a boy, Is caponed late, and to the gelder shown, With his two-pounders to perfection grown; When all the navel-string could give, appears; All but the beard, and that's the barber's loss, not theirs. Seen from afar, and famous for his ware, He struts into the bath among the fair; The admiring crew to their devotions fall, And, kneeling, on their new Priapus call. Kerved for his lady's use, with her he lies; And let him drudge for her, if thou art wise, Rather than trust him with thy favourite boy; He proffers death, in proffering to enjoy. If songs they love, the singer's voice they force Beyond his compass, 'till his quail-pipe's hoarse. His lute and lyre with their embrace is worn; With knots they trim it, and with gems adorn; Run over all the strings, and kiss the case, And make love to it in the master's place. A certain lady once, of high degree, To Janus vowed, and Vesta's deity, That Pollio[121] might, in singing, win the prize; Pollio, the dear, the darling of her eyes: She prayed, and bribed; what could she more have done For a sick husband, or an only son? With her face veiled, and heaving up her hands, The shameless suppliant at the altar stands; The forms of prayer she solemnly pursues, And, pale with fear, the offered entrails views. Answer, ye powers; for, if you heard her vow, Your godships, sure, had little else to do. This is not all; for actors[122] they implore; An impudence unknown to heaven before. The Aruspex,[123] tired with this religious rout, Is forced to stand so long, he gets the gout. But suffer not thy wife abroad to roam: If she loves singing, let her sing at home;