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WHEN simple Macer, now of high renown,
First sought a poet's fortune in the town;
'Twas all th' ambition his great soul could feel,
To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steele.
Some ends of verse his betters might afford,
And gave the harmless fellow a good word.
Set up with these, he ventur'd on the town,
And in a borrow'd play ourdid poor Crown.
There he stopt short, nor, since has writ a tittle,
But has the wit to make the most of little ;
Like stunted hidebound trees, that just have got
Sufficient sap at once to bear and rot.
Now he begs verse, and what he gets commends *,
Not of the wits his foes, but fools his friends.
So some coarse country wench, almost decay'd,
Trudges to town, and first turns chambermaid :
Awkward and supple each devoir to pay,
She flatters her good lady twice a day;
Thought wond'rous honest, tho’ of mean degree,
And strangely lik'd for her simplicity :
In a translated suit then tries the town,
With borrow'd pins, and patches not her own;
But just endur'd the winter she began,
And in four months a batter'd harridan.
Now nothing's left; but wither'd, pale, and shrunk,
To bawd for others, and go shares with punk..
* He requested, by publick advertisements, the aid of the ingenious, to make up a miscellany, in 1713.
SYLVIA my heart in wondrous wise alarm'd,
Aw'd without sense, and without beauty charm'd:
But some odd graces and some flights she had,
Was just not ugly, and was just not mad:
Her tongue still ran on credit from her eyes,
More pert than witty, more a wit than wise :
Goodnature, she declar'd it, was her scorn,
Tho’’twas by that alone she could be born:
Affronting all, yet fond of a good name ;
A fool to pleasure, yet a slave to fame :
Now coy, and studious in no point to fall,
Now all agog for D- yat a ball :
Now deep in Taylor, and the Book of Martyrs,
Now drinking citron with his grace and Chartres.
Men, some to bus’ness, some to pleasure take ;
But ev'ry woman's in her soul a rake.
Frail, fey'rish sex! their fit now chills, now burns :
Atheism and superstition rule by turns ;
And the mere heathen in her carnal part
Is still a sad good Christian in her heart.
THOUGH ARTEMISIA talks, by fits,
Of councils, classicks, fathers, wits ;
Reads Malbranche, Boyle, and Locke :
Yet in some things, methinks, she fails;
'Twere well, if she would pare her nails,
And wear a cleaner smock.
Haughty and huge as High Dutch bride ;
Such nastiness, and so much pride,
Are oddly join'd by fate :
On her large squab you find her spread,
Like a fate corpse upon a bed,
That lies and stinks in state.
She wears no colours (sign of grace)
On any part except her face ;
All white and black beside :
Dauntless her look, her gesture proud,
Her voice theatrically loud,
And masculine her stride.
So have I seen, in black and white,
A prating thing, a magpie hight,
A stately, worthless animal,
That plies the tongue, and wags the tail,
All Autter, pride, and talk,
PHRYNE had talents for mankind;
Open she was, and unconfin'd,
Like some free port of trade :
Merchants unloaded here their freight,
And agents from each foreign state
Here first their entry made.
Her learning and good breeding such,
Whether th’ Italian or the Dutch,
Spaniards or French came to her,
To all obliging she'd appear ;
'Twas si signior, 'twas yaw mynbeer,
: 'Twas s'il vous plait, monsieur.
Obscure by birth, renown'd by crimes,
Still changing names, religions, climes,
At length she turns a bride :
In diamonds, pearls, and rich brocades,
She shines the first of batter'd jades,
And Autters in her pride.
So have I known those insects fair,
Which curious Germans hold so rare,
Still vary shapes and dies ;
Still gain new titles with new forms;
First grubs obscene, then wriggling worms,
Then painted butterflies.
OCCASIONED BY FOUR SATIRICAL VERSES ON WOMEN WITS,
IN THE RAPE OF THE LOCK.
IN vain you boast poetic names of yore,
And cite those Sapphoes we admire no more :
Fate doom'd the fall of every female wit; .
But doom'd it then, when first Ardelia writ.
Of all examples by the world confest,
I knew Ardelia could not quote the best;
Who, like her mistress on Britannia's throne,
Fights and subdues in quarrels not her own.
To write their praise you but in vain essay;
Ev'n while you write, you take that praise away :
Light to the stars the sun does thus restore,
But shines himself till they are seen no more
A BISHOP by his neighbours hated
Has cause to wish himself translated ;
But why should Hough desire translation,
Lov'd and esteem’d by all the nation ?
Yet, if it be the old man's case,
I'll lay my life I know the place :
'Tis where God sent some that adore him,
And whither Enoch went before him.