"Odious! in woollen! 'twould a faint provoke, (Were the last words that poor Narciffa spoke) "No, let a charming Chintz, and Bruffels lace, "Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face: "One would not, fure, be frightful when one's dead "And-Betty-give this Cheek a little Red."

The Courtier smooth, who forty years had fhin'd An humble fervant to all human-kind,

Juft brought out this, when scarce his tongue could stir, "If-where I'm going-I could ferve you, Sir !" 255 "I give and I devise (old Euclio said,

And figh'd)" my lands and tenements to Ned." Your money, Sir?—" My money, Sir, what all? "Why,—if I must-(then wept) I give it Paul.” The manor, Sir?" The manor! hold, he cry'd. 260 "Not that, I cannot part with that"-and dy'd.

And you! brave Cobham, to the latest breath, Shall feel your ruling paffion strong in death:

Such in those moments as in all the past,

"Oh, fave my Country, Heaven!" shall be your last.

MORAL

MORA L ESSAY S.

EPISTLE

TOALAD Y.

II.

Of the Characters of WOMEN.

THERE is nothing in Mr. Pope's works more highly finished than this Epiftle: Yet its fuccefs was in no proportion to the pains he took in composing it. Something he chanced to drop in a fhort advertisement prefixed to it, on its first publication, may perhaps account for the small attention given to it. He faid that no one character in it was drawn from the life. The public believed him on his word, and expreffed little curiofity about a Satire, in which there was nothing perfonal.

N

OTHING fo true as what you once let fall,
"Moft Women have no Characters at all."

Matter too soft a lasting mark to bear,
And best distinguish'd by black, brown, or fair.
How many pictures of one Nymph we view,
All how unlike each other, all how true!
Arcadia's Countefs, here, in ermin'd pride,
Is there, Paftora by a fountain fide.

Here Fannia, leering on her own good man,
And there, a naked Leda with a Swan.

5

Let

Let then the fair-one beautifully cry,
In Magdalene's loofe hair and lifted eye,
Ör dreft in fmiles of fweet Cecilia shine,

With fimpering Angels, Palms, and Harps divine;
Whether the Charmer finner it, or faint it,

If Folly grow romantic, I must paint it.

Come then, the colours and the ground prepare!
Dip in the Rainbow, trick her off in Air;
Chufe a firm Cloud, before it fall, and in it
Catch, ere fhe change, the Cynthia of this minute.
Rufa, whofe eye, quick glancing o'er the Park,
Attracts each light gay meteor of a Spark,
Agrees as ill with Rufa ftudying Locke,
As Sappho's diamonds with her dirty fmock;
Or Sappho at her toilet's greasy task,
With Sappho fragrant at an evening Mask :
So morning Infects, that in muck begun,
Shine, buzz, and fly-blow in the fetting-fun.

How foft is Silia! fearful to offend;

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20

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The frail-one's advocate, the weak-one's friend.
To her, Califta prov'd her conduct nice;

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And good Simplicius afks of her advice.
Sudden, fhe ftorms! fhe raves! You tip the wink,
But fpare your cenfure; Silia does not drink.
All eyes may fee from what the change arose,
All eyes may fee- a Pimple on her nose.

Papillia, wedded to her amorous fpark,

Sighs for the fhades-" How charming is a Park !”
A Park is purchas'd, but the Fair he fees

35

All bath'd in tears-" Óh odious, odious Trees!" 40

Ladies,

Ladies, like variegated Tulips, fhow,

'Tis to their Changes half their charms we owe ;
Fine by defect, and delicately weak,

Their happy Spots the nice admirer take.
'Twas thus Calypso once each heart alarm'd,
Aw'd without Virtue, without Beauty charm'd
Her Tongue bewitch'd as oddly as her Eyes,
Lefs Wit than Mimic, more a Wit than Wise;
Strange graces ftill, and stranger flights she had,
Was juft not ugly, and was just not mad;
Yet ne'er fo fure our paffion to create,

As when the touch'd the brink of all we hate.
Narciffa's nature, tolerably mild,

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50

To make a wash, would hardly stew a child;
Has ev'n been prov'd to grant a Lover's prayer,

55

And paid a Tradesman once to make him stare;

Gave alms at Eafter, in a Chriftian trim,
And made a Widow happy, for a whim.
Why then declare Good-nature is her scorn,

When 'tis by that alone fhe can be born?
Why pique all mortals, yet affect a name?
A fool to Pleasure, yet a flave to fame :

60

Now deep in Taylor and the Book of Martyrs,
Now drinking Citron with his Grace and Chartres;
Now Confcience chills her, and now Paffion burns; 65
And Atheism and Religion take their turns;

A very Heathen in the carnal part,

Yet ftill a fad, good Christian at her heart.
See Sin in State, majestically drunk;
Proud as a Peerefs, prouder as a Punk;

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Chafte

Chafte to her Husband, frank to all befide,

A teeming Mistress, but a barren Bride.

What then? let Blood and Body bear the fault,

Her Head's untouch'd, that noble Seat of Thought:

Such this day's doctrine-in another fit

75

She fins with Poets through pure love of Wit.
What has not fir'd her bofom or her brain?
Cæfar and Tall-boy, Charles and Charlemagne.
As Helluo, late Dictator of the Feast,
The Nose of Haut-gout, and the Tip of Taste,
Critiqu'd your wine, and analyz'd your meat,
Yet on plain pudding deign'd at home to eat:
So Philomedé, lecturing all mankind
On the foft Paffion, and the Tafte refin'd,
Th' Address, the Delicacy-ftoops at once,
And makes her hearty meal upon a Dunce.
Flavia's a Wit, has too much sense to pray;
To toast our wants and wishes, is her way;
Nor asks of God, but of her Stars, to give
The mighty bleffing, "while we live, to live.”
Then all for Death, that Opiate of the foul!
Lucretia's dagger, Rofamonda's bowl.
Say, what can cause such impotence of mind?
A Spark too fickle, or a Spouse too kind.

Wife Wretch! with pleasures too refin'd to please; 95 With too much Spirit to be e'er at ease;

With

VARIATION.

Ver. 77. What has not fir'd, &c.] In the MS.
In whofe mad brain the mixt ideas roll,
Of Tall-boy's breeches, and of Cæfar's foul.