« ПредишнаНапред »
Now as a nymph I need not sue, nor try
The force of any lightning but the eye.
Beauty and youth more than a God command;
No Jove could e'er the force of these withitand.
'Tis here that sov'reign power admits dispute ;
Beauty sometimes is justly absolute.
Our sullen Cato's, whatsoe'er they say,
Even while they frown and dictate laws, obey.
You, mighty fir, our bonds more easy make,
And gracefully, what all must suffer, take:
Above those forms the grave affect to wear ;
For 'tis not to be wise to be severe.
some gallantry admit,
And soften business with the charms of wit.
These peaceful triumphs with your cares you
And from the midst of fighting nations brought.
You only hear it thunder from afar,
And sit in
the arbiter of war :
Peace, the loath'd manna, which hot brains despise.
You knew its worth, and made it early prize:
And in its happy leisure fit and see
The promises of more felicity :
Two glorious nymphs of your own godlike line,
Whose morning rays like noontide strike and thine:
you to supplant monarchs shall dispose, To bind your friends, and to disarm
OST modern wits such monstrous fools
have shown, They seem not of heaven's making, but their own, Those nauseous harlequins in farce may pass ; But there goes more to a substantial ass : Something of man must be expos’d to view, That, gallants, they may more resemble you. Sir Fopling is a fool so nicely writ, The ladies would mistake him for a wit; And, when he fings, talks loud, and cocks
I vow, methinks, he's pretty company:
So brisk, so
so travell’d, fo refin’d, As he took pains to graff upon his kind.
True fops help nature's work, and
To file and finish God Almighty's fool.
Yet none Sir Fopling him, or him can call ;
He's knight o'th'fhire, and represents ye all.
From each he meets he culls whate'er he can;
Legion's his name, a people in a man.
His bulky folly gathers as it
And, rolling o'er you, like a snow-ball grows.
His various modes from various fathers follow
One taught the toss, and one the new French wallow:
His sword-knot this, his cravat that design'd;
And this, the yard-long snake he twirls behind.
From one the sacred periwig he gain'd,
Which wind ne'er blew, nor touch of hat prophan'd.
Another's diving bow he did adore,
Which with a thog casts all the hair before,
Till he with full decorum brings it back,
And rises with a water-spaniel shake.
As for his fongs, the ladies dear delight,
These sure he took from most of
who write. Yet ev'ry man is safe from what he fear'd; For no one fool is hunted from the herd.
MITHRIDATES, King of PONTUS.
U'VE seen a pair of faithful lovers die :
you care; for most of
will cry, 'Twas a just judgment on their constancy. For, heaven be thank'd, we live in such an age, When no man dies for love, but on the stage : And e’en those martyrs are but rare in plays ; A cursed sign how much true faith decays. Love is no more a violent desire; 'Tis a meer metaphor, a painted fire. In all our sex, the name examin'd well, 'Tis pride to gain, and vanity to tell. In woman, 'tis of subtle int'rest made : Curse on the punk that made it first a trade ! She first did wit's prerogative remove, And made a fool presume to prate of love. Let honor and preferment go for gold; But glorious beauty is not to be sold;
Or, if it be, 'tis at a rate so high,
| That nothing but adoring it should buy.
Yet the rich cullies may their boasting spare ;
They purchase but sophisticated ware.
'Tis prodigality that buys deceit,
Where both the giver and the taker cheat.
Men but refine on the old half-crown way ;
And women fight, like Swiffers, for their pay.
Eaven save ye, gallants, and this hopeful age;
Y’are welcome to the downfal of the stage:
The fools have labor'd long in their vocation
And vice, the manufacture of the nation,
O’erstocks the town so much, and thrives so well,
That fops and knaves grow drugs, and will not sell.
In vain our wares on theatres are shown,
When each has a plantation of his own.