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Let then the fair-one beautifully cry,
In Magdalene's loose hair and lifted eye,
Or dreft in fmiles of fweet Cecilia fhine,
With fimpering Angels, Palms, and Harps divine;
Whether the Charmer finner it, or faint it,
If Folly grow romantic, I muft 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. 20
Rufa, whose eye, quick glancing o'er the Park,
Attracts each light gay meteor of a Spark,
Agrees as ill with Rufa studying 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 setting-fun.
How foft is Silia! fearful to offend;
The frail-one's advocate, the weak-one's friend.
To her, Califta prov'd her conduct nice;
And good Simplicius asks of her advice.
Sudden, she storms! she raves! You tip the wink,
But spare your cenfure; Silia does not drink.
All eyes may fee from what the change arofe,
All eyes may fee-a Pimple on her nose.
Papillia, wedded to her amorous spark,
Sighs for the shades-" How charming is a Park !”
A Park is purchas'd, but the Fair he fees
All bath'd in tears—" Oh odious, odious Trees !" 40
Ladies, like variegated Tulips, show,
'Tis to their Changes half their charms we owe ;
Fine by defect, and delicately weak,
Their happy Spots the nice admirer take.
'Twas thus Calypfo 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 Wife ;
Strange graces ftill, and ftranger flights fhe had,
Was just 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,
To make a wash, would hardly ftew a child;
Has ev'n been prov'd to grant a Lover's prayer,
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 fcorn,
When 'tis by that alone she can be born?
Why pique all mortals, yet affect a name?
A fool to Pleasure, yet a flave to fame :
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;
Chafte to her Husband, frank to all befide,
A teeming Miftrefs, but a barren Bride.
What then? let Blood and Body bear the fault,
Her Head 's untouch'd, that noble Seat of Thought:
Suck this day's doctrine-in another fit
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 Nofe of Haut-gout, and the Tip of Tafte,
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 Taste refin'd,
Th' Addrefs, the Delicacy-ftoops at once,
And makes her hearty meal upon a Dunce.
Flavia's a Wit, has too much fense to pray;
To toast our wants and wishes, is her way;
Nor afks 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 caufe fuch impotence of mind?
A Spark too fickle, or a Spoufe too kind.
Wife Wretch! with pleasures too refin'd to please; 95 With too much Spirit to be e'er at ease;
Ver. 77. What has not fir'd, &c.] In the MS.
whofe mad brain the mixt ideas roll,
ll-boy's breeches, and of Cæfar's foul.
With too much Quickness ever to be taught;
With too much Thinking to have common Thought: You purchase pain with all that Joy can give,
And die of nothing but a Rage to live.
Turn then from Wits; and look on Simo's Mate,
No Afs fo meek, no Afs so obftinate.
Or her, that owns her Faults, but never mends,
Because the 's honeft, and the best of Friends.
Or her, whose life the Church and Scandal share,
For ever in a Paffion, or a Prayer.
Or her, who laughs at Hell, but (like her Grace)
Cries, "Ah! how charming, if there's no fuch place!"
Or who in fweet viciffitude appears
Of Mirth and Opium, Ratafie and Tears,
The daily Anodyne, and nightly Draught,
To kill thofe foes to Fair-ones, Time and Thought.
Woman and Fool are two hard things to hit;
For true No-meaning puzzles more than Wit.
But what are thefe to great Atoffa's mind?
Scarce once herself, by turns all Womankind!
Who, with herself, or others, from her birth
Finds all her life one warfare upon earth:
Shines, in expofing Knaves, and painting Fools,
Yet is, whate'er the hates and ridicules.
No Thought advances, but her Eddy Brain
Whisks it about, and down it goes again.
After ver. 122. in the MS.
Opprefs'd with wealth and wit, abundance fad!
One makes her poor, the other makes her mad.
Full fixty years the World has been her Trade,
The wifeft Fool much Time has ever made.
From loveless youth to unrespected age,
No Paffion gratify'd, except her Rage,
So much the Fury still out-ran the Wit,
The Pleasure mifs'd her, and the Scandal hit.
Who breaks with her, provokes Revenge from Hell, But he's a bolder man who dares be well.
every turn with Violence pursued,
Nor more a storm her Hate than Gratitude:
To that each Paffion turns, or foon or late;
Love, if it makes her yield, must make her hate :
Superiors? death! and Equals? what a curfe!
But an Inferior not dependant? worse.
Offend her, and fhe knows not to forgive;
Oblige her, and she 'll hate you while you live:
But die, and fhe 'll adore you-Then the Bust
And Temple rife-then fall again to duft.
Last night, her Lord was all that's good and great ;
A Knave this morning, and his Will a Cheat.
Strange! by the Means defeated of the Ends,
By Spirit robb'd of Power, by Warmth of Friends,
By Wealth of Followers! without one distress
Sick of herself, through very selfishness!
Atoffa, curs'd with every granted prayer,
Childless with all her Children, wants an Heir.
After ver. 148. in the MS.
This Death decides; nor lets the bleffing fall
On any one the hates, but on them all.