Where the tall jar erects his coftly pride,
With antick shapes in china's azure dy'd;
There careless lies the rich brocade unroll'd;
Here shines a cabinet with burnish'd gold:
But then remembrance will my grief renew,
'Twas there the raffling dice falfe 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 caufe of all my fmart;
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 faithlefs prove;
Frail was thy prefent, frailer is thy love.

O happy Poll, in wiry prifon pent;

Thou ne'er haft known what love or rivals meant
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 scorn!
Falfe are the loofe 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 stamp the board,
Falfe is the sprightly widow's public tear;
Yet these 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

3

He

games; he fwears; he drinks; he fights; he roves ;

Yet Chloe can believe he fondly loves.

Mistress and wife can well fupply his need;
A mifs for pleasure, 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 she 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 she bears.
How well this ribband's glofs becomes your face £
She cries, in raptures; then, so sweet 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-house Harry keeps her box.

THE

DORIS.

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

Name but the licence of the modern stage,
Laura takes fire, and kindles into rage;

3 The whining tragic love she scarce can bear,
But naufeous comedy ne'er fhock'd her ear;
Yet, in the gallery mobb'd, fhe fits fecure,
And laughs at jests that turn the box demure.
DORIS.

Trust not, ye Ladies, to your beauty's power,
For beauty withers like a shrivel'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