A frustrated lover argues that the woman he desires is ruled not by virtue but by a false, tyrannical version of honour. In his telling, Love itself feels cheated: if Honour would only step aside, Love could prove the stronger god. But Honour, described as a blustering bully, has taken possession of her heart, and until true generosity drives it out, he’s left to suffer. The speaker’s tone is sarcastic and self-pitying, yet oddly triumphant—he claims a twisted pleasure in his pain, while her cold pride gives her nothing real. He casts himself as a willing sacrifice to Love, and her as a miserable prisoner of Honour. Then comes the cutting final thought: what she calls honour is nothing like the noble confidence found in men. For women, he insists, it’s just mean-spirited, mistrustful shame. The mood is clever and scornful, a libertine’s verbal duel, half seduction and half insult.
A Woman's Honour — Summary
Love bade me hope, and I obeyed; Phyllis continued still unkind: Then you may e'en despair, he said, In vain I strive to change her mind.
Honour's got in, and keeps her heart, Durst he but venture once abroad, In my own right I'd take your part, And show myself the mightier God.
This huffing Honour domineers In breasts alone where he has place: But if true generous Love appears, The hector dares not show his face.
Let me still languish and complain, Be most unhumanly denied: I have some pleasure in my pain, She can have none with all her pride.
I fall a sacrifice to Love, She lives a wretch for Honour's sake; Whose tyrant does most cruel prove, The difference is not hard to make.
Consider real Honour then, You'll find hers cannot be the same; 'Tis noble confidence in men, In women, mean, mistrustful shame.