Where the tall jat erects his coftly pride,
With antick fhapes in china's azure dy'd ;
There carelefs lies the rich brocade unroll'd;
Here shines a cabinet with burnifh'd gold:
But then remembrance will my grief renew,
Twas there the raffling dice false Damon threw ;
The raffling dice to him decide the prize;
"Twas there he first convers'd with Chloe's eyes.
Hence fprung th' ill-fated cause of all my smart;
To me the toy he gave, to her his heart.
But foon thy perjury in the gift was found,
The fhiver'd china dropt upon the ground;
Sure omen that thy vows would faithless provė;
Frail was thy present, frailer is thy love.

O happy Poll, in wiry prifon pent;

Thou ne'er haft known what love or rivals theant;
And Pug with pleasure can his fetters bear,
Who ne'er believ'd the vows that lovers fwear!
How am I curft (unhappy and forlorn)

With perjury, with love, and rival's fcorn!
Falfe are the loose coquette's inveigling airs,
Falfe is the pompous grief of youthful heirs,
Falfe is the cringing courtier's plighted word,
Falfe are the dice when gamefters ftamp the board,
Falfe is the fprightly widow's public tear ;
Yet thefe to Damon's oaths are all fincere.
Fly from perfidious man, the fex difdain ;
Let fervile Chloe wear the nuptial chain.
Damon is practis'd in the modifh life,
Can hate, and yet be civil to a wife.

He games; he fwears; he drinks; he fights; he roves ;
Yet Chloe can believe he fondly loves.

Miftrefs and wife can well supply his need;
A mifs for pleafure, and a wife for breed.
But Chloe's air is unconfin'd and gay,
And can perhaps an injur'd bed repay;
Perhaps her patient temper can behold
The rival of her love adorn'd with gold.

Powder'd with diamonds; free from thought and care,
A husband's fullen humours fhe can bear.

Why are these fobs? and why these streaming eyes?
Is love the caufe? no, I the fex despise;
I hate, I loath his base perfidious name.
Yet if he should but feign a rival flame?
But Chloe boasts and triumphs in my pains;
To her he's faithful, 'tis to me he feigns.

Thus love-fick Lydia rav'd. Her maid appears;
A band-box in her steady hand fhe bears.
How well this ribband's glofs becomes your face!
She cries, in raptures; then, fo fweet a lace!
How charmingly you look! fo bright! fo fair!
'Tis to your eyes the head-drefs owes its air.
Straight Lydia fmil'd; the comb adjusts her locks,
And at the play-houfe Harry keeps her box.

ТНЕ TE A-TABLE.

A TOWN ECLOGUE.

DORIS AND MELANTHE.

AINT James's noon-day bell for prayers had toll'd,

SAINT

And coaches to the patron's levee roll❜d,

When Doris rofe. And now through all the room
From flowery Tea exhales a fragrant fume.
Cup after cup they fipt, and talk'd by fits,
For Doris here, and there Melanthe fits.
Doris was young, a laughter-loving dame,
Nice of her own alike and others' fame :
Melanthe's tongue could well a tale advance,
And fooner gave than funk a circumstance;
Lock'd in her memory, fecrets never dy'd.
Doris begun Melanthe thus reply'd.

:

DORIS.

Sylvia the vain fantastic Fop admires;
The Rake's loofe gallantry her bosom fires;
Sylvia like that is vain, like this she roves;
In liking them, fhe but herself approves.

MELANTHE.

Laura rails on at men, the fex reviles,
Their vice condemns, or at their folly fmiles,
Why should her tongue in just resentment fail,

re men at her with equal freedom rail?

DORIS.

Last Masquerade was Sylvia nymph-like feen,
Her hand a crook sustain'd, her dress was green;
An amorous fhepherd led her through the crowd,
The nymph was innocent, the fhepherd vow'd;
But nymphs their innocence with shepherds truft;
So both withdrew, as nymph and fhepherd muft.

MELANTHE.

Name but the licence of the modern stage,
Laura takes fire, and kindles into rage;
The whining tragic love she scarce can bear,
But nauseous comedy ne'er fhock'd her ear;
Yet, in the gallery mobb'd, fhe fits fecure,
And laughs at jefts that turn the box demure.

DORIS.

Trust not, ye Ladies, to your beauty's power,
For beauty withers like a fhrivel'd flower;

Yet thofe fair flowers, that Sylvia's temples bind,
Fade not with fudden blights or winter's wind;
Like thofe, her face defies the rolling years;
For art her roses and her charms repairs.

MELANTHE.

Laura defpifes every outward grace,

The wanton fparkling eye, the blooming face
The beauties of the foul are all her pride,
For other beauties Nature has deny'd;
If affectation fhew a beauteous mind,
Lives there a man to Laura's merits blind?

DORIS.

Sylvia be fure defies the town's reproach,

Whose difhabille is foil'd in hackney coach;

What though the fafh was clos'd, muft we conclude, That she was yielding, when her fop was rude?

MELANTHE.

Laura learnt caution at too dear a coft.

What Fair could e'er retrieve her honour loft?
Secret she loves; and who the nymph can blame,
Who durft not own a footman's vulgar flame?

DORIS.

Though Laura's homely tafte defcends fo low;
Her footman well may vie with Sylvia's beau.

MELANTHE.

Yet why fhould Laura think it a disgrace,
When proud Miranda's groom wears Flanders lace!

DORIS.

What though for mufick Cynthio boasts an ear ?
Robin perhaps can hum an Opera air.
Cynthio can bow, takes fnuff, and dances well;
Robin talks common-sense, can write and spell.
Sylvia's vain fancy drefs and fhow admires;
But 'tis the man alone whom Laura fires.

MELANTHE.

Plato's wife morals Laura's foul improve
And this no doubt must be Platonic love!
Her foul to generous acts was still inclin'd.
What fhews more virtue than an humble mind?