THE Woman's Labour : TO Mr. STEPHEN DUCK . Immortal Bard ! thou Fav'rite of the Nine ! Enrich'd by Peers , advanc'd by Caroline ! Deign to look down on one that's poor and low , Remembring you yourself was lately so ; Accept these Lines : Alas ! what can you have From her , who ever was , and's still a Slave ? No Learning ever was bestow'd on me ; My Life was always spent in Drudgery : And not alone ; alas ! with Grief I find , It is the Portion of poor Woman-kind . Oft have I thought as on my Bed I lay , Eas'd from the tiresome Labours of the Day , Our first Extraction from a Mass refin'd , Could never be for slavery design'd ; Till Time and Custom by Degrees destroy'd That happy State our Sex at first enjoy'd . When Men had us'd their utmost Care and Toil , Their Recompence was but a Female Smile ; When they by Arts or Arms were render'd Great , They laid their Trophies at a Woman's Feet ; They , in those Days , unto our Sex did bring Their Hearts , their All , a Free-will Offering ; And as from us their Being they derive , They back again should all due Homage give . JOVE once descending from the Clouds , did drop In showers of Gold on lovely Danae's Lap ; The sweet-tongu'd Poets , in those generous Days , Unto our Shrine still offer'd up their Lays : But now , alas ! that Golden Age is past , We are the Objects of your Scorn at last . And you , great Duck , upon whose happy Brow The Muses seem to fix their Garland now , In your late Poem boldly did declare Alcides' Labours cant with yours compare ; And of your annual Task have much to say , Of Threshing , Reaping , Mowing Corn and Hay ; Boasting your daily Toil , and nightly Dream , But cant conclude your never-dying Theme , And let our hapless Sex in Silence lie Forgotten , and in dark Oblivion die ; But on our abject State you throw your Scorn , And Women wrong , your Verses to adorn . You of Hay-making speak a Word or two , As if our Sex but little Work could do : This makes the honest Farmer smiling say , He'll seek for Women still to make his Hay ; For if his Back be turn'd the Work they mind As well as Men , as far as he can find . For my own Part , I many a Summer's Day Have spent in throwing , turning , making Hay ; But ne'er could see , what you have lately found , Our Wages paid for sitting on the Ground . 'Tis true , that when our Morning's Work is done , And all our Grass expos'd unto the Sun , While that his scorching Beams do on it shine , As well as you we have a Time to dine : I hope , that since we freely toil and sweat To earn our Bread , you'll give us Time to eat ; That over , soon we must get up again , And nimbly turn our Hay upon the plain : Nay , rake and row it in , the Case is clear ; Or how should Cocks in equal Rows appear ? But if you'd have what you have wrote believ'd , I find , that you to hear us talk are griev'd : In this , I hope , you do not speak your Mind , For none but Turks , that ever I could find , Have Mutes to serve them , or did e'er deny Their Slaves , at Work , to chat it merrily . Since you have Liberty to speak your Mind , And are to talk , as well as we , inclin'd , Why should you thus repine , because that we , Like you , enjoy that pleasing Liberty ? What ! would you Lord it quite , and take away The only Privilege our Sex enjoy ? When Ev'ning does approach , we homeward hie , And our domestick Toils incessant ply : Against your coming Home prepare to get Our Work all done , Our House in order set ; Bacon and Dumpling in the Pot we boil , Our Beds we make , our Swine we feed the while ; Then wait at Door to see you coming Home , And set the Table out against you come : Early next Morning we on you attend , Our Children dress and feed , their Cloaths we mend And in the Field our daily Task renew , Soon as the rising Sun has dry'd the Dew . When Harvest comes , into the Field we go , And help to reap the Wheat as well as you ; Or else we go the Ears of Corn to glean ; No Labour scorning , be it e'er so mean ; But in the Work we freely bear a Part , And what we can , perform with all our Heart . To get a Living we so willing are , Our tender Babes unto the Field we bear , And wrap them in our Cloaths to keep them warm , While round about we gather up the Corn ; And often unto them our Course do bend , To keep them save , that nothing them offend : Our Children that are able bear a share , In gleaning Corn , such is our frugal Care . When Night comes on , unto our Home we go , Our Corn we carry , and our Infant too ; Weary indeed ! but 'tis not worth our while Once to complain , or rest at ev'ry Stile ; We must make haste , for when we home are come , We find again our Work but just begun : So many Things for our Attendance call , Had we ten Hands , we could employ them all . Our Children put to Bed , with greatest Care We all Things for your coming home prepare : You sup , and go to Bed without Delay , And rest yourselves till the ensuing Day ; While we , alas ! but little Sleep can have , Because our froward Children cry and rave ; Yet , without fail , soon as Day-light doth spring , We in the Field again our work begin , And there , with all our Strength , our Toil renew , Till Titan's golden Rays have dry'd the Dew ; Then home we go unto our Children dear , Dress , feed , and bring them to the Field with Care . Were this your Case , you justly might complain That Day nor Night you are secure from Pain ; Those mighty Troubles which perplex your Mind , ( Thistles before , and Females come behind ) Would vanish soon , and quickly disappear , Were you , like us , encumber'd thus with Care . What you would have of us we do not know : We oft take up the Corn that you do mow ; We cut the Peas , and always ready are In every Work to take our proper Share ; And from the Time that Harvest doth begin , Until the Corn be cut and carry'd in , Our Toil and Labour's daily so extreme , That we have hardly ever Time to Dream . The Harvest ended , Respite none we find ; The hardest of our Toil is still behind : Hard Labour we most chearfully pursue , And out , abroad , a Chairing often go : Of which I now will briefly tell in part , What fully to describe is past my Art ; So many Hardships daily we go through , I boldly say , the like you never knew . When bright Orion glitters in the Skies In Winter Nights , then early we must rise ; The Weather ne'er so bad , Wind , Rain , or Snow , Our Work appointed , we must rise and go ; While you on easy Beds may lie and sleep , Till Light does thro' your Chamber Windows peep When to the House we come where we should go , How to get in , alas ! we do not know : The Maid quite tir'd with Work the day before , O'ercome with Sleep ; we standing at the Door Oppress'd with Cold , and often call in vain , E'er to our Work we can admittance gain : But when from Wind and Weather we get in , Briskly with Courage we our Work begin ; Heaps of fine Linnen we before us view , Whereon to lay our Strength and Patience too ; Cambricks and Muslins which our Ladies wear , Laces and Edgings , costly , fine , and rare , Which must be wash'd with utmost Skill and Care ; With Holland Shirts , Ruffles and Fringes too , Fashions , which our Fore-fathers never knew . For several Hours here we work and slave , Before we can one Glimpse of Day-light have ; We labour hard before the Morning's past , Because we fear the Time runs on too fast . At length bright Sol illuminates the Skies , And summons drowsy Mortals to arise ; Then comes our Mistress to us without fail , And in her Hand , perhaps , a Mug of Ale To cheer our Hearts , and also to inform Herself what Work is done that very Morn ; Lays her Commands upon us , that we mind Her Linnen well , nor leave the Dirt behind : Nor this alone , but also to take Care We don't her Cambricks nor her Ruffles tear ; And these most strictly does of us require , To save her Soap , and sparing be of Fire ; Tells us her Charge is great , nay furthermore , Her Cloaths are fewer than the Time before : Now we drive on , resolv'd our Strength to try , And what we can we do most willingly ; Untill with Heat and Work , 'tis often known , Not only Sweat , but Blood runs trickling down Our Wrists and Fingers ; still our Work demands The constant Action of our lab'ring Hands . Now Night comes on , from whence you have Relief , But that , alas ! does but increase our Grief ; With heavy Hearts we often view the Sun , Fearing he'll set before our Work is done ; For either in the Morning , or at Night , We peice the Summers Day with Candle-light . Tho' we all Day with Care our Work attend , Such is our Fate , we know not when 'twill end : When Evening's come , you homeward take your Way , We , till our Work is done , are forc'd to stay ; And after all our Toil and Labour past , Six-pence or Eight-pence pays us off at last ; For all our Pains , no Prospect can we see Attend us , but Old Age and Poverty . The Washing is not all we have to do : We oft change Work for Work as well as you . Our Mistress of her Pewter doth complain , And 'tis our part to make it clean again . This Work , tho very hard and tiresome too , Is not the worst we hapless Females do : When Night comes on , and we quite weary are , We scarce can count what falls unto our Share ; Pots , Kettles , Sauce-pans , Skillets , we may see , Skimmers , and Ladles , and such Trumpery , Brought in to make compleat our Slavery . Tho' early in the Morning 'tis begun , 'Tis often very late before we've done ; Alas ! our Labours never know no End , On Brass and Iron we our Strength must spend ; Our tender Hands and Fingers scratch and tear : All this , and more , with Patience we must bear , Colour'd with Dirt and Filth we now appear ; Your threshing sooty Peas will not come near . All the Perfections Woman once could boast , Are quite obscur'd , and altogether lost . Once more our Mistress sends to let us know She wants our Help , because the Beer runs low : Then in much haste for Brewing we prepare , The Vessels clean , and scald with greatest Care ; Often at Midnight from our Bed we rise At other Times ev'n that will not suffice ; Our Work at Ev'ning oft we do begin , And e'er we've done , the Night comes on again . Water we pump , the Copper we must fill , Or tend the Fire ; for if we e'er stand still , Like you , when Threshing , we a Watch must keep , Our Wort boils over , if we dare to sleep . But to rehearse all Labour is in vain , Of which we very justly might complain : For us , you see , but little Rest is found ; Our Toil increases as the Year runs round , While you to Sysiphus yourselves compare , With Danaus' daughters we may claim a Share ; For while he labours hard against the Hill , Bottomless Tubs of Water they must fill . So the industrious Bees do hourly strive To bring their Loads of Honey to the Hive ; Their fordid Owners always reap the Gains , And poorly recompense their Toil and Pains .