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Nor dost thou scorn, amid sublimer views,

Most charitably lends the town his face,
To listen to the labors of the Muse;

For ornament, in every public place;
Thy smiles prolect her, while thy talents fire, As sure as cards, he to th' assembly comes,
And 'tis but half thy glory to inspire.

And is the furniture of drawing-rooms :
Ver'd at a public fame, so justly won,

When ombre calls, his hand and heart are free, The jealous Chremes is with spleen undone ; And, join'd to two, he fails not—to make three: Chremes, for airy pensions of renown,

Narcissus is the glory of his race;
Devotes his service to the state and crown: For who does nothing with a better grace ?
All schemes he knows, and, knowing, all improves, To deck my list, by Nature were design'd
Though Britain 's thankless, still this patriot loves : Such shining expletives of human-kind,
But patriots differ; some may shed their blood, Who want, while through blank life they dream
He drinks his coffee, for the public good;

Consults the sacred steam, and there foresees Sense to be right, and passion to be wrong.
What storms, or sun-shine, Providence decrees; To counterpoise this hero of the mode,
Knows, for each day, the weather of our fate ; Some for renown are singular and odd:
A quidnunc is an almanac of state.

What other men dislike, is sure to please,
You smile, and think this statesman void of use; Of all mankind, these dear antipodes ;
Why may not time his secret worth produce? Through pride, not malice, they run counter still,
Since apes can roast the choice Castanian nut; And birth-days are their days of dressing ill.
Since steeds of genius are expert at put;

Arbuthnot is a fool, and F- La sage, Since half the Senate “Not content" can say, Sly will fright you, E- engage; Geese nations save, and puppies plots betray. By nature streams run backward, flame descends, What makes him model realms, and counsel Stones mount, and Sussex is the worst of friends ; kings?

They take their rest by day, and wake by night, An incapacity for smaller things :

And blush, if you surprise them in the right ; Poor Chremes can't conduct his own estate, If they by chance blurt out, ere well aware, And thence has undertaken Europe's fate.

A swan is white, or Queensberry is fair. Gehenno leaves the realm to Chremes' skill,

Nothing exceeds in ridicule, no doubt, And boldly claims a province higher still:

A fool in fashion, but a fool that's out. To raise a name, th' ambitious boy has got, His passion for absurdity's so strong, At once, a Bible, and a shoulder-knot ;

He cannot bear a rival in the wrong ;
Deep in the secret, he looks through the whole, Though wrong the mode, comply; more sense is
And pities the dull rogue that saves his soul ;

To talk with rev'rence you must take good heed, In wearing others' follies, than your own.
Nor shock his tender reason with the Creed; If what is out of fashion most you prize,
Howe'er, well-bred, in public he complies, Methinks you should endeavor to be wise.
Obliging friends alone with blasphemies.

But what in oddness can be more sublime
Peerage is poison, good estates are bad

Than Sloane, the foremost toyman of his time? For this disease ; poor rogues run seldom mad. His nice ambition lies in curious fancies, Have not attainders brought unhop'd relief, His daughter's portion a rich shell enhances, And falling slocks quite cur'd an unbelief? And Ashmole's baby-house is, in his view, While the sun shines, Blunt talks with wondrous Britannia's golden mine, a rich Peru! force ;

How his eyes languish ! how his thoughts adore But thunder mars small beer, and weak discourse. That painted coat, which Joseph never wore ! Such useful instruments the weather show, He shows, on holidays, a sacred pin, Just as their mercury is high or low:

That touch'd the ruff, that touch'd Queen Bess's chin Health chiefly keeps an atheist in the dark ;

“Since that great dearth our chronicles deplore, A fever argues better than a Clarke :

Since that great plague that swept as many more, Let but the logic in his pulse decay,

Was ever year unblest as this?" he'll cry, The Grecian he'll renounce, and learn to pray ; “It has not brought us one new butterfly!" While - mourns, with an unfeigned zeal, In times that suffer such learn'd men as these, Th' apostate youth, who reason`d once so well. Unhappy Iy! how came you to please ?

C-, who makes merry with the Creed, Noi gaudy butterflies are Lico's game ; He almost thinks he disbelieves indeed :

But, in effect, his chase is much the same :
But only thinks so : to give both their due, Warm in pursuit, he levées all the great,
Satan, and he, believe, and tremble too.

Staunch to the foot of title and estate :
of some for glory such the boundless rage, Where'er their lordships go, they never find
That they 're the blackest scandal of their age. Or Lico, or their shadows, lag behind ;
Narcissus the Tartarian dub disclaims;

He sets them sure, where'er their lordships run, Nay, a free-mason, with some terror, names; Close at their elbows, as the morning-dun ; Omits no duty; nor can envy say,

As if their grandeur by contagion wrought,
He miss'd, these many years, the church, or play: And fame was, like a fever, to be caught :
He makes no noise in parliament, 'tis true ; But after seven years dance, from place to place,
But pays his debts, and visit, when 'tis due ; The Dane* is more familiar with his grace.
Ilis character and gloves are ever clean,

Who'd be a crutch to prop a rotten peer ;
And then, he can out-bow the bowing dean; Or living pendant dangling at his ear,
A smile eternal on his lip he wears,

For ever whispering secrets, which were blown
Which equally the wise and worthless shares. For months before, by trumpets, through the town?
In gay fatigues, this most undaunted chief,
Patient of idleness beyond belief,

* A Danish dog of the Duke of Argyll. 79

з с

Who'd be a glass, with flattering grimace, Fame's a reversion, in which men take place Still to reflect the temper of his face?

(O late reversion !) at their own decease. Or happy pin to stick upon his sleeve,

This truth sagacious Lintot knows so well, When my lord 's gracious, and vouchsafes it leave? He starves his authors, that their works may sell. Or cushion, when his heaviness shall please

That fame is wealth, fantastic poets ery; To loll, or thump it, for his better ease ?

That wealth is fame, another clan reply ; Or a vile bull, for noon, or night, bespoke,

Who know no guilt, no scandal, but in rags; When the peer rashly swears he club his joke? And swell in just proportion to their bags. Who'd shake with laughter, though he could not Nor only the low-born, deform'd, and old, find

Think glory nothing but the beams of gold ; His lordship's jest; or, if his nose broke wind, The first young lord, which in the Mall you meet, For blessings to the gods profoundly bow,

Shall match the veriest hunks in Lombard-street, That can cry, “Chimney sweep," or drive a plow ? From rescued candles'-ends who rais'd a sum, With terms like these, how mean the tribe that close ! And slarves to join a penny to a plum. Scarce meaner they, who terms like these impose. A beardless miser! 'Tis a guilt unknown

But what's the tribe most likely to comply ? To former times, a scandal all our own. The men of ink, or ancient authors lie;

Of ardent lovers, the true modern band
The writing tribe, who shameless auctions hold Will mortgage Celia to redeem their land.
Of praise, by inch of candle to be sold :

For love, young, noble, rich Castalio dies;
All men they flatter, but themselves the most, Name but the fair, love swells into his eyes.
With deathless fame, their everlasting boast : Divine Monimia, thy fond fears lay down;
For Fame no cully makes so much her jest, No rival can prevail-but half-a-crown.
As her old constant spark, the bard profest.

He glories to late times to be convey'd,
Boyle shines in council, Mordaunt in the fight, Not for the poor he has reliev'd, but made :
Pelham's magnificent; but I can write,

Not such ambition his great fathers fir'd, And what to my great soul like glory dear ?" When Harry conquer'd, and half France expir'd. Till some god whispers in his tingling ear, He'd be a slave, a pimp, a dog, for gain: 'That fame's unwholesome taken without meal, Nay, a dull sheriff for his golden chain. And life is best sustain'd by what is eat :

“Who'd be a slave ?" the gallant Colonel cries, Grown lean, and wise, he curses what he writ, While love of glory sparkles from his eyes. And wishes all his wants were in his wit.

To deathless fame he loudly pleads his rightAh! what avails it, when his dinner's lost, Just is his title-for he will not fight: That his triumphant name adorns a post ?

All soldiers valor, all divines have grace, Or that his shining page (provoking fate!) As maids of honor beautyby their place : Defends sirloins, which sons of dullness eat?

But, when indulging on the last campaign, What foe to verse without compassion hears, His lofty terms climb, o'er the hills of slain; What cruel prose-man can refrain from tears, He gives the foe he slew, at each vain word, When the poor Muse, for less than half-a-crown, A sweet revenge, and half absolves his sword. A prostitute on every bulk in town,

Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid, With other whores undone, though not in print, A soldier should be modest as a maid : Clubs credit for Geneva in the Mint?

Fame is a bubble the reserv'd enjoy ; Ye bards ! why will you sing, though uninspir’d? Who strive to grasp it, as they touch, destroy. Ye bards! why will you starve, 10 be admir'd ? "Tis the world's debt to deeds of high degree; Defunct by Phæbus' laws, beyond redress, But if you pay yourself, the world is free. Why will your speclres haunt the frighted press ? Were there no tongue to speak them but his own Bad metre, that excrescence of the head,

Augustus' deeds in arms had ne'er been known. Like hair, will sprout, although the poet's dead. Augustus' deeds! if that ambiguous name

All other trades demand, verse-makers beg : Confounds my reader, and misguides his aim, A dedication is a wooden-leg ;

Such is the prince's worth, of whom I speak; A barren Labeo, the true mumper's fashion, The Roman would not blush at the mistake. Exposes borrow'd brats to move compassion. Though such myself, vile bards I discommend; Nay more, though gentle Damon is my friend. "Is't then a crime to write ?"-If talent rare Proclaim the god, the crime is to forbear :

SATIRE V. For some, though few, there are, large-minded

ON WOMAN. Who watch unseen the labors of the pen;

O fairest of creation ! last and best!
Who know the Muse's worth, and therefore court, Of all God's works! Creature in whom exceliid,
Their deeds her theme, their bounty her support; Whatever can to sight, or thought, be form'd
Who serve, unask'd, the least pretence to wit;

Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet!
How art thou lost! -

My sole excuse, alas! for having writ.
Argyll true wit is studious to restore ;

Nor reigns ambition in bold man alone ; And Dorset smiles, if Phæbus smil'd before ; Soft female hearts the rude invader own; Pembroke in years the long-lov'd arts admires, But there, indeed, it deals in nicer things, And Henrietta like a Muse inspires.

Than routing armies, and dethroning kings:
But ah! not inspiration can obtain

Attend, and you discern it in the fair,
That fame, which poets languish for in vain. Conduct a finger, or reclaim a hair;
How mad their aim, who thirst for glory, strive Or roll the lucid orbit of an eye ;
To grasp,
what no man can possess alive!

Or, in full joy, elaborate a sigh.


The sex we honor, though their faults we Can vent her thunders, and her lightnings play, blame;

O'er cooling gruel, and composing tea : Nay, thank their faults for such a fruilful theme: Nor resis by night, but, more sincere than nice, A theme, fair ! doubly kind to me,

She shakes the curtains with her kind advice : Since satirizing those is praising thee;

Doubly, like echo, sound is her delight, Who wouldst not bear, too modestly refin'd, And the last word is her eternal right. A panegyric of a grosser kind.

Is 't not enough plagues, wars, and famines, rise Britannia's daughters, much more fair than nice, To lash our crimes, but must our wives be wise ? Too fond of admiration, lose their price ;

Famine, plague, war, and an unnumber'd throng Worn in the public eye, give cheap delight Of guilt-avenging ills, to man belong : To throngs, and tarnish to the sated sight:

What black, what ceaseless cares besiege our state! As unreserv'd, and beauteous, as the Sun,

What strokes we feel from fancy, and from fate! Through every sign of vanity they run;

If fate forbears us, fancy strikes the blow;
Assemblies, parks, coarse feasts in city-halls; We make misfortune ; suicides in woe.
Lectures, and trials, plays, committees, balls, Superfluous aid! unnecessary skill!
Wells, bedlams, executions, Smithfield scenes, Is Nature backward to torment, or kill?
And fortune-tellers, caves, and lions' dens,

How oft the noon, how oft the midnight, bell, Taverns, exchanges, bridewells, drawing-rooms, (That iron tongue of Death!) with solemn knell, Instalments, pillories, coronations, tombs,

On Folly's errands as we vainly roam, Tumblers, and funerals, puppet-shows, reviews, Knocks atour hearts, and finds our thoughts from home Sales, races, rabbits, (and, still stranger!) pews. Men drop so fast, ere life's mid-stage we tread,

Clarinda's bosom burns, but burns for Fame ; Few know so many friends, alive, as dead.
And love lies vanquish'd in a nobler flame; Yet, as immortal, in our up-hill chase
Warm gleams of hope she, now, dispenses; then, We press coy Fortune with unslacken'd pace;
Like April suns, dives into clouds again:

Our ardent labors for the toys we seek,
With all her lustre, now, her lover warms; Join night to day, and Sunday to the week:
Then, out of ostentation, hides her charms; Our very joys are anxious, and expire
"Tis, next, her pleasure sweetly to complain, Between satiety and fierce desire.
And to be taken with a sudden pain;

Now what reward for all this grief and toil ?
Then, she starts up, all ecstasy and bliss,

But one, a female friend's endearing smile;
And is, sweet soul! just as sincere in this :

A tender smile, our sorrows' only balm,
O how she rolls her charming eyes in spite ! And, in life's tempest, the sad sailor's calm.
And looks delightfully with all her might!

How have I seen a gentle nymph draw nigh,
But, like our heroes, much more brave than wise, Peace in her air, persuasion in her eye;
She conquers for the triumph, not the prize. Victorious tenderness! it all o'ercame,

Zara resembles Etna crown'd with snows; Husbands look'd mild, and savages grew tame. Without she freezes, and within she glows:

The sylvan race our active nymphs pursue ; Twice ere the Sun descends, with zeal inspir'd, Man is not all the game they have in view: From the vain converse of the world retir'd, In woods and fields their glory they complete ; She reads the psalms and chapters for the day, There Master Betty leaps a five-barr'd gate; 1o-Cleopatra, or the last new play.

While fair Miss Charles to toilets is confin'd, Thus gloomy Zara, with a solemn grace,

Nor rashly tempts the barbarous sun and wind. Deceives mankind, and hides behind her face. Some nymphs affect a more heroic breed, Nor far beneath her in renown, is she,

And volt from hunters to the managed steed; Who through good-breeding is ill company; Command his prancings with a martial air, Whose manners will not let her larum cease, And Fobert has the forming of the fai Who thinks you are unhappy, when at peace ; More than one steed must Delia's empire feel, To find you news, who racks her subtle head, Who sits triumphant o'er the flying wheel ; And vows/" that her great-grandfather is dead." And as she guides it through th' admiring throng,

A dearth of words a woman need not fear; With what an air she smacks the silken ihong! But 'tis a task indeed to learn to hear :

Graceful as John, she moderates the reins, In that the skill of conversation lies;

And whistles sweet her diuretic strains : That shows, or makes, you both polite and wise. Sesostris-like, such charioteers as these Xantippe cries, · Let nymphs who nought can May drive six harness'd monarchs, if they please : say

They drive, row, run, with love of glory smit, Be lost in silence, and resign the day;

Leap, swim, shoot flying, and pronounce on wit. And let the guilty wife her guilt confess,

O'er the belles-lettres lovely Daphne reigns ; By tame behavior, and a soft address !"

Again the god A pollo wears her chains : Through virtue, she refuses to comply

With legs toss'd high, on her sophee she sits, With all the dictates of humanity;

Vouchsafing audience to contending wits: Through wisdom, she refuses to submit

Of each performance she's the final test ; To wisdom's rules, and raves to prove her wit ; One act read o'er, she prophesies the rest; Then, her unblemish'd honor to maintain,

And then, pronouncing with decisive air, Rejects her husband's kindness with disdain: Fully convinces all the town—she's fair. But if, by chance, an ill-adapted word

Had lovely Daphne Hecatessa's face, Props from the lip of her unwary lord,

How would her elegance of taste decrease! Her darling china, in a whirlwind seni,

Some ladies' judgment in their features lies, Just intimates the lady's discontent.

And all their genius sparkles from their eyes. Wine may indeed excite the meekest dame; " But hold," she cries, “ lam pooner! have a care ; But keen Xantippe, scorning' borrow'd flame, Must I want common sense, because I'm fair ?"

O no: see Stella; her eyes shine as bright, You, in the morning, a fair nymph invite ;
As if her tongue was never in the right;

To keep her word, a brown one comes at night:
And yet what real learning, judgment, fire! Next day she shines in glossy black; and then
She seems inspir'd, and can herself inspire : Revolves into her native red again :
How then (if malice rul'd not all the fair)

Like a dove's neck, she shifts her transient charms, Could Daphne publish, and could she forbear? And is her own dear rival in your arms. We grant that beauty is no bar to sense,

But one admirer has the painted lass ; Nor is't a sanction for impertinence.

Nor finds that one, but in her looking-glass : Sempronia lik'd her man; and well she might; Yet Laura's beautiful to such excess, The youth, in person and in parts, was bright; That all her art scarce makes her please us less. Possess'd of every virtue, grace, and art,

To deck the female cheek, HE only knows, That claims just empire o'er the female heart: Who paints less fair the lily and the rose. He met her passion, all her sighs return'd,

How gay they smile! Such blessings Nature pours, And, in full rage of youthful ardor, burn'd : O'erstock'd mankind enjoy but half her stores : Large his possessions, and beyond her own; In distant wilds, by human eyes unseen, Their bliss the theme and envy of the town: She rears her flowers, and spreads her velvet green; The day was fix'd, when, with one acre more, Pure gurgling rills the lonely desert trace, In stepp'd deform’d, debauch’d, diseas'd, threescore. And waste their music on the savage race. The fatal sequel I, through shame, forbear; Is Nature then a niggard of her bliss ? of pride and avarice who can cure the fair ? Repine we guiltless in a world like this?

Man's rich with little, were his judgment true; But our lewd tastes her lawful charms refuse, Nature is frugal, and her wants are few;

And painted art's deprav'd allurements choose. Those few wants answerd, bring sincere delights; Such Fulvia's passion for the town; fresh air But fools create themselves new appetites : (An odd effect !) gives vapors to the fair; Fancy and pride seek things at vast expense, Green fields, and shady groves, and crystal springs, Which relish not to reason, nor to sense.

And larks, and nightingales, are odious things ; When surfeit, or unthankfulness, destroys, But smoke, and dust, and noise, and crowds delight; In nature's narrow sphere, our solid joys,

And to be press'd to death, transports her quite : In fancy's airy land of noise and show,

Where silver rivulets play through flowery meads, Where nought but dreams, no real pleasures grow; And woodbines give their sweets, and limes their Like cats in air-pumps, to subsist we strive

shades, On joys too thin to keep the soul alive.

Black kennels' absent odors she regrets, Lemira's sick; make haste; the doctor call : And stops her nose at beds of violets. He comes; but where's his patient ? At the ball. Is stormy life preferr'd to the serene? The doctor stares; her woman curt'sies low, Or is the public to the private scene? And cries, “ My lady, sir, is always so :

Retir'd, we tread a smooth and open way: Diversions put her maladies to flight;

Through briers and brambles in the world we stray i True, she can't stand, but she can dance all night: Stiff opposition, and perplex'd debate, I've known my lady (for she loves a tune)

And thorny care, and rank and stinging hate,
For fevers take an opera in June :

Which choke our passage, our career control,
And, though perhaps you'll think the practice bold, And wound the firmest temper of our soul.
A midnight park is sovereign for a cold ;

O sacred solitude! divine retreat!
With colics, breakfasts of green fruit agree; Choice of the prudent! envy of the great!
With indigestions, supper just at three."

By thy pure stream, or in thy waving shade,
A strange alternative, replies Sir Hans,

We court fair Wisdom, that celestial maid : Must women have a doctor, or a dance ?

The genuine offspring of her lov'd embrace Though sick to death, abroad they safely roam, (Strangers on Earth!) are innocence and peace : But droop and die, in perfect health, at home : There, from the ways of men laid safe ashore, For want-but not of health, are ladies ill; We smile to hear the distant tempest roar; And tickets cure beyond the doctor's bill.

There, bless'd with health, with business unperpler'd, Alas, my heart! how languishingly fair

This life we relish, and insure the next; Yon lady lolls! With what a tender air !

There too the Muses sport; these numbers free, Pale as a young dramatic author, when,

Pierian Eastbury! I owe to thee. O'er darling lines, fell Cibber waves his pen.

There sport the Muses; but not there alone : Is her lord angry, or has Veny* chid ?

'Their sacred force Amelia feels in town. Dead is her father, or the mask forbid ?

Nought but a genius can a genius fit;
“Late sitting-up has turn'd her roses white." A wit herself, Amelia weds a wit:
Why went she not to bed ? Because 'twas night." Both wits! though miracles are said to cease,
Did she then dance or play ? “Nor this, nor that." Three days, three wondrous days! they liv'd in
Well, night soon steals away in pleasing chat.

No, all alone, her prayers she rather chose, With the fourth sun a warm dispute arose,
Than be that wretch to sleep till morning rose." On Durfey's poesy, and Bunyan's prose :
Then lady Cynthia, mistress of the shade,

The learned war both wage with equal force,
Goes, with the fashionable owls, to bed :

And the fifth morn concluded the divorce. This her pride covets, this her health denies ;

Phæbe, though she possesses nothing less, Her soul is silly, but her body's wise.

Is proud of being rich in happiness ; Others, with curious arts, dim charms revive, Laboriously pursues delusive toys, And triumph in the bloom of fifty-five.

Content with pains, since they're reputed joys.

With what well-acted transport will she say, * Lap-dog

Well, sure we were so happy yesterday!


weep ?


And then that charming party for to-morrow!" In glittering scenes, o'er her own heart, severe;
Though, well she knows, 'twill languish into sorrow: In crowds, collected ; and in courts, sincere ;
But she dares never boast the present hour; Sincere, and warm, with zeal well understood,
So gross that cheat, it is beyond her power: She takes a noble pride in doing good;
For such is or our weakness, or our curse, Yet, not superior to her sex's cares,
Or rather such our crime, which still is worse, The mode she fixes by the gown she wears;
The present moment, like a wife, we shun, of silks and china she's the last appeal;
And ne'er enjoy, because it is our own.

In these great points she leads the commonweal;
Pleasures are few, and fewer we enjoy ; And if disputes of empire rise between
Pleasure, like quicksilver, is bright, and coy; Mechlin the queen of lace, and Colberteen,
We strive to grasp it with our utmost skill, "Tis doubt! 'tis darkness! till suspended fate
Still it eludes us, and it glitters still :

Assumes her nod, to close the grand debate. If seiz'd at last, compute your mighty gains ; When such her mind, why will the fair express What is it, but rank poison in your veins ? Their emulation only in their dress ? As Flavia in her glass an angel spies,

But oh! the nymph that mounts above the skies, Pride whispers in her ear pernicious lies;

And, gratis, clears religious mysteries,
Tells her, while she surveys a face so fine, Resolv'd the church's welfare to insure,
There's no satiety of charms divine :

And make her family a sinecure :
Hence, if her lover yawns, all chang'd appears The theme divine at cards she'll not forget,
Her temper, and she melts (sweet soul!) in tears : But takes in texts of Scripture at piquel ;
She, fond and young, last week, her wish enjoy'd, In those licentious meetings aets the prude,
In soft amusement all the night employd ;

And thanks her Maker that her cards are good. The morning came, when Strephon, waking, found What angels would those be, who thus excel (Surprising sight!) his bride in sorrow drown'd. In theologics, could they sew as well! “What miracle,” says Strephon, “makes thee Yet why should not the fair her text pursue ?

Can she more decently the doctor woo? “ Ah, barbarous man,” she cries, “ how could you— 'Tis hard, too, she who makes no use but chat

Of her religion, should be barr'd in that. Men love a mistress as they love a feast ;

Isaac, a brother of the canting strain, How grateful one to touch, and one to taste! When he has knock'd at his own skull in vain, Yet sure there is a certain time of day,

To beauteous Marcia often will repair We wish our mistress, and our meat, away: With a dark text, to light it at the fair. But soon the sated appetites return,

O how his pious soul exults to find Again our stomachs crave, our bosoms burn: Such love for holy men in woman-kind ! Eiernal love let man, then, never swear ;

Charm'd with her learning, with what rapture he Let women never triumph, nor despair;

Hangs on her bloom, like an industrious bee; Nor praise, nor blame, too much, the warm, or chill; Hums round about her, and with all his power Hunger and love are foreign to the will.

Extracts sweet wisdom from so fair a flower! There is indeed a passion more refin'd,

The young and gay declining, Appia flies For those few nymphs whose charms are of the mind : At nobler game, the mighty and the wise : But not of that unfashionable set

By nature more an eagle than a dove, Is Phyllis ; Phyllis and her Damon met.

She impiously prefers the world to love. Eternal love exactly hits her taste ;

Can wealth give happiness? look round and see Phyllis demands eternal love at least.

What gay distress! what splendid misery! Embracing Phyllis with soft-smiling eyes,

Whatever fortune slavishly can pour,
Eternal love I vow, the swain replies :

The mind annihilates, and calls for more.
But say, my all, my mistress, and my friend ! Wealth is a cheat; believe not what it says:
What day next week, th' eternity shall end ? Like any lord, it promises and pays.
Some nymphs prefer astronomy to love ;

How will the miser startle, to be told
Elope from mortal man, and range above.

Of such a wonder, as insolvent gold! The fair philosopher to Rowley flies,

What Nature wants has an intrinsic weight; Where, in a bor, the whole creation lies :

All more is but the fashion of the plate, She sees the planets in their turns advance, Which, for one moment, charms the fickle view; And scorns, Poitier, thy sublunary dance :

It charms us now; anon we cast anew; Of Desaguliers she bespeaks fresh air ;

To some fresh birth of fancy more inclin'd : And Whiston has engagements with the fair. Then wed not acres, but a noble mind, What vain experiments Sophronia tries!

Mistaken lovers, who make worth their care, "Tis not in air-pumps the gay colonel dics.

And think accomplishments will win the fair; But though to-day this rage of science reigns, The fair, 'tis true, by genius should be won, (O fickle sex !) soon end her learned pains. As flowers unfold their beauties to the Sun ; Lo! Pug from Jupiter her heart has got,

And yet in female scales a fop outweighs, Turns out the stars, and Newton is a sot.

And wit must wear the willow and the bays. To turn; she never took the height Nought shines so bright in vain Liberia's eye Of Saturn, yet is ever in the right.

As riot, impudence, and perfidy ; She strikes each point with native force of mind, The youth of fire, that has drunk deep, and play'd While puzzled Learning blunders far behind. And kill'd his man, and triumph'd o'er his maid ; Graceful to sight, and elegant to thought,

For him, as yet unhang'd, she spreads her charms The great are vanquish'd, and the wise are taught. Snatches the dear destroyer to her arms; Her breeding finish'd, and her temper sweet, And amply gives (though treated long amiss) When serious, easy; and when gay, discreet; The man of merit his revenge in this.

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