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Chaste to her Husband, frank to all beside,
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 :
Suck this day's doctrine-in another fit

She fins with Poets through pure love of Wit.
What has not fir'd her bosom 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 soft Passion, and the Taite refin'd,
Th’ Address, the Delicacy-stoops 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 alks of God, but of her Stars, to give
The mighty blessing, “ while we live, to live."

Then all for Death, that Opiate of the foul !
Lucretia's dagger, Rosamonda's bowl.
Say, what can cause such impotence of mind ?
A Spark too fickle, or a Spouse too kind.
Wise 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.

In whose mad brain the mixt ideas roll,
Of Tall-boy's breeches, and of Cxfar's soul.

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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 Ass so meek, no Ass so obstinate.
Or her, that owns her Faults, but never mends,
Because she 's honest, and the best of Friends.
Or her, whose life the Church and Scandal share,

105 For ever in a Passion, or a Prayer. Or her, who laughs at Hell, but (like her Grace) Cries, “ Ah! how charming, if there 's no such place !" Or who in sweet vicissitude appears Of Mirth and Opium, Ratafie and Tears, The daily Anodyne, and nightly Draught, To kill those 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 these to great Atosla’s mind? 115 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 exposing Knaves, and painting Fools, Yet is, whate'er she hates and ridicules. No Thought advances, but her Eddy Brain Whisks it about, and down it goes again.

After ver. 122. in the MS.

Oppress'd with wealth and wit, abundance fad !
One makes her poor, the other makes her mad.

I 20

Full fixty years the World has been her Trade,
The wisest 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 miss’d her, and the Scandal hit,
Who breaks with her, provokes Revenge from Hell,
But he's a bolder man who dares be well.

130 Her every turn with Violence pursued, Nor more a storm her Hate than Gratitude : To that each Passion turns, or soon or late; Love, if it makes her yield, must make her hate : Superiors ? death! and Equals ? what a curse! 135 But an Inferior not dependant? worse. Offend her, and she knows not to forgive; Oblige her, and the 'll hate


while you live : But die, and the 'll adore you-Then the Buft And Temple rise-then fall again to dust. 140 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.

Το VARIATION. After ver. 148. in the MS. This Death decides ; nor lets the blessing fall On any one the hates, but on them all.


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To Heirs unknown descends th' unguarded store,
Or wanders, Heaven-directed, to the Poor.

Pictures like these, dear Madam, to design,
Ask no firm hand, and no unerring line;
Some wandering touches, some reflected light,
Some flying stroke alone can hit them right:
For how should equal Colours do the knack ?

155 Chameleons who can paint in white and black ?

“ Yet Chloe fure was formn'd without a spot.”Nature in her then err’d not, but forgot. “ With every pleasing, every prudent part, “ Say, what can Chloe want?”-She wants a Heart. She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought; But never, never, reach'd one generous Thought. Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour, Content to dwell in Decencies for ever. So very reasonable, so unmoy'd,

165 As never yet to love, or to be lov'd. She, while her Lover pants upon her breast, Can mark the figures on an Indian chest; And when she sees her Friend in deep despair, Observes how much a Chintz exceeds Mohair.

170 Forbid it, Heaven, a Favour or a Debt She e'er should cancel - but she may forget. Safe is your secret still in Chloe's ear; But none of Chloe's shall you ever hear.

OF VARIATION. Curs'd chance! this only could afflict her more, If any part should wander to the poor,

Of all her Dears she never slander'd one,

175 But cares not if a thousand are undone. Would Chloe know if you're alive or dead ? She bids her Footman put it in her head, Chloe is prudent-Would you too be wise ? Then never break your heart when Chloe dies. 180

One certain Portrait may (I grant) be seen, Which Heaven has varnish'd out, and made a Queen : The same for ever! and describ'd by all With Truth and Goodness, as with Crown and Ball. Poets heap Virtues, Painters Gems at will, 185 And shew their zeal, and hide their want of skill. 'Tis well—but, Artists ! who can paint or write, To draw the naked is your true delight. That Robe of Quality so struts and swells, None see what Parts of Nature it conceals :

190 Th’exactest traits of Body or of Mind, We owe to models of an humble kind. If Queensberry to strip there 's no compelling, 'Tis from a Handmaid we must take a Helen. From Peer or Bishop 'tis no easy thing

195 To draw the man who loves his God, or King: Alas! I copy, (or my draught would fail) From honest Mah’met, or plain Parson Hale.



After ver. 198. in the MS.

Fain I'd in Falvia spy the tender Wife;
I cannot prove it on her for my life :
And, for a noble pride, I bluih no less,
Instead of Berenice to think on Bess.


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