The Curtezan unmasked

In Short

This work is a fervent, sermon-like discourse that characterizes the "strange woman" of the Book of Proverbs as a dangerous siren who lures men into self-destruction. Through a series of sobering arguments, the author details the physical, social, and eternal costs of indulgence, urging the reader to adopt rigorous spiritual and practical "antidotes" to avoid this trap. It has endured as an artifact of its period’s moral climate, capturing the intense, often fearful, preoccupation with the "fever of lust" that dominated the religious discourse of Restoration England.

The Story

The narrative arc of the book is that of a spiritual physician diagnosing and prescribing a cure for a collective malady: the vulnerability of the male soul to the temptations of the "strange woman." The author opens by drawing from Proverbs, establishing the core duality of the seductress: her initial appearance is as smooth as honey and oil, yet her inevitable conclusion is as bitter as wormwood and as lethal as a two-edged sword. The author paints this figure not merely as a person, but as a "beautiful Siren" whose face hides a serpent’s tail—a harpy whose allure is a deliberate enchantment designed to ensnare the senses.

As the argument progresses, the author systematically deconstructs the illusion of pleasure. He portrays the seductress as a master of artifice, one who uses paint and vanity to disguise the decay of her true nature. He warns that the man who enters her company does not merely indulge in a passing fancy but effectively takes fire into his bosom. This fire is not the gentle warmth of a domestic hearth, but a destructive, consuming heat that burns through the victim’s reputation, health, and estate. The author evokes historical examples of lost men to underscore his point, suggesting that the path of the adulterer is characterized by hidden fears, jealousies, and the eventual exhaustion of the body.

The arc of the argument then shifts from the temporal consequences to the eternal. The author asserts that the "fever of lust" is not merely a social or physical hazard but a barrier to the divine. By citing scripture, he argues that the adulterer’s path is fundamentally incompatible with the kingdom of heaven. The "story" concludes not with a narrative resolution, but with a practical one: the prescription of seven "heavenly julips" or antidotes. These range from the mental discipline of a "covenant with the eyes" and the physical austerity of an ascetic diet to the structural remedy of holy matrimony. The author insists that if a man cannot master his own internal fires, he must seek the sanctified bond of marriage as a final, protective shelter. The closing movement is a firm rejection of the "destructive" alternative of monasticism, positioning marriage as the only legitimate—and divinely sanctioned—channel for human desire. The final stance is clear: the reader must choose between the ephemeral, "poisonous" allure of the strange woman and the disciplined, honorable path of a life guided by faith and moderation.

How It Unfolds

The diagnosis of the siren The author introduces the "strange woman" as a cunning, transformative figure who uses artifice to lure men into her labyrinth. He argues that her presence is an inescapable trap, regardless of how many guards or walls are placed around her.

The anatomy of the fever The text details how lust acts as a physical and moral disease, comparing the adulterer to a "walking hospital" of corruption. The author explains that the pleasures of this path are only "transitory," while the resulting physical decay and loss of reputation are permanent.

The spiritual consequence The focus shifts to the afterlife, where the author argues that indulgence is a direct barrier to salvation. He uses biblical precedent to define the adulterer as a "dog" excluded from the city of God, emphasizing the irrecoverable damage done to the soul.

The seven antidotes The second half of the book acts as a manual for recovery, providing specific strategies to combat temptation. The author advises the reader to guard their eyes, practice fasting, kill "evil thoughts" like flies, and maintain a pure tongue.

The final refuge The argument culminates in the promotion of marriage as the ultimate solution for those who cannot achieve complete celibacy. By contrasting this "sacred bond" with the "stews" of nunneries, the author presents marriage as the only safe, honorable, and divinely ordained outlet for human passion.

The People

The central figure is the Strange Woman, who is less a character and more a manifestation of danger. She represents the "painted Jezebel," a creature of vanity and artifice who desires only to draw men into her "endless circle of lust." She is the primary obstacle to the reader's spiritual and physical health.

Standing against her is the Spiritual Physician, the authorial persona who assumes the role of a guardian. He is analytical, stern, and deeply concerned with the preservation of the reader’s soul. He wants nothing more than to "bolt the door" against the seductress, using history, scripture, and medical metaphors to strip away her allure.

Finally, there is the Gallant, the target of both the woman’s temptations and the physician’s warnings. He is portrayed as someone currently "sick" with desire, easily led by his eyes and his appetites. He is expected to move from a state of "lethargic stupidity"—where he believes he is warming himself at a pleasant fire—to a state of enlightenment, where he realizes that the fire he has embraced is the very thing that will consume him. His journey is one of repentance and realignment, ending as a man who has "taken up his cross" to fight against the internal enemies of his own nature.

In Its Own Voice

The lips of a strange woman drop as an honey-comb, and her mouth is smoother then oyl: But her end is bitter as wormwood, and sharp as a two-edged sword.

(The author uses this scriptural passage to establish the central warning that defines his entire argument.)

And we may say of her what Scipio in another case said of himself, She is never less alone than when alone.

(This observation emphasizes the author’s claim that the strange woman’s lascivious thoughts are so pervasive that she is constantly occupied by her own corruption.)

Whilest I hear one Historian talk of Sempronia, and give her this character, That she oftner courted men to her embraces then she was courted by them, I fancy he makes mention of the strange woman in the Text.

(The author employs historical figures to illustrate that the archetype of the "strange woman" has been a consistent, destructive presence throughout time.)

What It's Really About

The book is a deep meditation on the conflict between the "fever of the flesh" and the stability of the soul. At its core, the text is a defense of self-mastery and external discipline against the chaotic, "voluptuary" impulses of human nature. It poses a fundamental question: how can a man survive in a world filled with temptation while remaining untainted? The author’s answer lies in a rigid structure of surveillance—watching one's eyes, one's diet, and one's speech—to maintain the sanctity of the self. Ultimately, the book is an argument for the necessity of boundaries, viewing any departure from strict, traditional virtues as a step toward total personal and spiritual disintegration.

Why Read It Today

Reading this work today is a challenging but revealing experience for anyone interested in the history of moral rhetoric. The language is dense with seventeenth-century references, complex classical allusions, and a rigid, fire-and-brimstone intensity that may feel alien to a modern sensibility. The author’s view of women—categorized as either "virtuous" or as the "painted" agents of ruin—is deeply rooted in the period’s patriarchal attitudes and will likely strike contemporary readers as harsh or reductive.

However, there is a certain grim fascination in witnessing the author’s absolute conviction. The text does not apologize for its severity; it writes with a clinical, almost surgical focus on the "anatomy" of sin. Readers who enjoy historical primary sources or those who are curious about how early modern thinkers conceptualized the "mind-body" connection will find the book’s metaphors—such as the heart as a mill that burns itself if left empty—to be strikingly vivid. It is not an easy read, nor is it a light one, but it provides a clear, unvarnished look at the fears that shaped the lives of our predecessors. If you approach it as an artifact of a bygone moral architecture rather than a modern conduct guide, you will find it to be a powerful, if jarring, window into a world where the stakes for one's soul were considered the highest in existence.