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Mothers, and guardian aunts, forbear
Your impious pains to form the fair,
Nor lay out so much cost and art,
But to deflow'r the virgin heart;
Of ev'ry folly-foft'ring bed
By quick’ning heat of custom bred.
Rather than by your culture spoild,
Defift, and give us nature wild,
Delighted with a hoyden foul,
Which truth and innocence controul.
Coquets, leave off affected arts,
Gay fowlers at a fock of hearts;
Woodcocks to shun your snares have skill,
You fhew fo plain, you strive to kill.
In love the artless catch the game,
And they scarce miss who never áim.

The world's great Author did create
The sex to fit the nuptial state,
And meant a blessing in a wife
To solace the fatigues of life;
And old inspired times display,
How wives could love, and yet obey.
Then truth and patience of controul,
And house-wife arts adorn'd the soul ;
And charms, the gift of nature, Thone;
And jealousy, a thing unknown :
Veils were the only masks they wore ;
Novels (receipts to make a whore)

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Nor

Nor ombre, nor quadrille they knew;
Nor Pam's puiffance felt at loo.
Wife men did not, to be thought gay,
Then compliment their pow'r away :
But left, by frail defires milled,
The girls forbidden paths fhould tread,
Of ign'rance rais'd the fafe high wall ;
We fink haw-haws, that shew them all.
Thus we at once solicit fense,
And charge them not to break the fencë.

Now, if untir'd, consider friend,
What I avoid to gain my end.

I never am at Meeting feen,
Meeting, that region of the Spleen ;
The broken heart, the busy fiend,
The inward call, on Spleen depend: ::

Law, licens'd breaking of the peace,
To which vacation is disease;
A gypsy di&tion scarce known well
By th' magi, who law-fortunes tell
I fhun; nor let it breed within
Anxiety, and that the Spleen ;
Law, grown a forest, where perplex
The mazes, and the brambles vex;
Where its twelve verd'rers every day
Are changing still the publick way;
Yet if we miss our path and err,
We grievous penalties incur ;

And

And wand'rers tire, and tear their kin,
And then get out where they went in.

I never game, and rarely bet,
Am loth to lend, or run in debt.
No compter-writs me agitate;
Who moralizing pass the gate,
And there mine eyes on spendthrifts turn,
Who vainly o'er their bondage mourn.
Wisdom, before beneath their care,
Pays her upbraiding visits there,
And forces folly thro' the grate
Her panegyrick to repeat.
This view, profusely when inclin'd,
Enters a caveat in the mind :
Experience join'd with common sense,
To mortals is a providence.

Passion, as frequently is seen,
Subfiding settles into Spleen.
Hence, as the plague of happy life,
I run away from party-frife.
A prince's cause, a church's claim,
I've known to raise a mighty Alame,
And priest, as stoker, very free
To throw in peace and charity.

That tribe, whose practicals decree
Small-beer the deadliest heresy;
Who, fond of pedigree, derive
From the most noted whore alive ;

Who

Who own wine's old prophetick aid,
And love the mitre Bacchus made,
Forbid the faithful to depend
On half-pint drinkers for a friend,
And in whose gay red-letter'd face
We read good-living more than grace :
Nor they fo pure, and so precise,
Immac'late as their white of eyes,
Who for the spirit hug the Spleen,
Phylacter'd throughout all their mien,
Who their ill-tafted home-brew'd pray’r
To the state's mellow forms prefer ;
Who doctrines, as infectious, fear,
Which are not steep'd in vinegar,
And samples of heart-chefted grace
Expose in shew-glass of the face,
Did never me as yet provoke,
Either to honour band and cloak,
Or deck

my

hat with leaves of oak.
I rail not with mock-patriot grace
At folks, because they are in place ;
Nor, hir'd to praise with stallion pen,
Serve the ear-lechery of men;
But to avoid religious jars
The laws are my expositors,
Which in my doubting inind create
Conformity to church and state,
I go, pursuant to my plan,
To Mecca with the caravan,

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And think it right in common sense
Both for diversion and defence.

Reforming schemes are none of mine ;
To mend the world's a vast design :
Like theirs, who tug in little boat,
To pull to them the ship afloat,
While to defeat their labour'd end,
At once both wind and stream contend :
Success herein is seldom seen,
And zeal, when baffled, turns to Spleen.

Happy the man, who, innocent,
Grieves not at ills he can't prevent ;
His skiff does with the current glide,
Not puffing pull'd against the tide.
He, paddling by the scufling crowd,
Sees unconcern'd life's wager row'd,
And when he can't prevent foul play,
Enjoys the folly of the fray.

By these reflections I repeal
Each hafty promise made in zeal.
When
g
IP

s say, Were bound our great light to display, And Indian darkness drive

away,
Yet none but drunken watchmen send,
And scoundrel link-boys for that end ;
When they cry up this holy war,
Which ev'ry christian should be for,

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Vol. I.

I

Yet

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