Nature well known, no prodigies remain, Comets are regular, and Wharton plain. Yet, in this search, the wisest may mistake, If second qualities for first they take. When Catiline by rapine swell❜d his store; When Cæsar made a noble dame a whore ; In this the lust, in that the avarice, Were means, not ends; ambition was the vice. That very Cæsar, born in Scipio's days, Had aim'd, like him, by chastity, at praise. Lucullus, when frugality could charm, Had roasted turnips in the Sabine farm. In vain the observer eyes the builder's toil, But quite mistakes the scaffold for the pile. In this one passion man can strength enjoy, As fits give vigour, just when they destroy. Time, that on all things lays his lenient hand, Yet tames not this; it sticks to our last sand. Consistent in our follies and our sins, Here honest Nature ends as she begins. Old politicians chew on wisdom past, And totter on in business to the last; As weak, as earnest; and as gravely out, As sober Lanesborow dancing in the gout. Behold a reverend sire, whom want of grace, Has made the father of a nameless race, Shov'd from the wall perhaps, or rudely press'd By his own son, that passes by unbless'd: Still to his wench he crawls on knocking knees, And envies every sparrow that he sees. A salmon's belly, Helluo, was thy fate; The doctor call'd, declares all help too late : "Mercy!" cries Helluo, "mercy on my soul ! Is there no hope ?-Alas!-then bring the jowl." The frugal crone, whom praying priests attend, Still strives to save the hallow'd taper's end, Collects her breath, as ebbing life retires, For one puff more, and in that puff expires. "Odious! in woollen! 'twould a saint provoke," (Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke,) "No, let a charming chintz and Brussels lace, Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face: One would not, sure, be frightful when one's deadAnd-Betty-give this cheek a little red." The courtier smooth, who forty years had shin'd An humble servant to all human-kind, [stir, Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue could "If where I'm going-I could serve you, sir!" I give and I devise" (old Euclio said, And sigh'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. "Not that I cannot part with that,"-and dy'd. And you! brave Cobham, to the latest breath, Shall feel your ruling passion strong in death: Such in those moments as in all the past, "Oh, save my country, Heaven!" shall be your last. TO A LADY. EPISTLE II. OF THE CHARACTERS OF WOMEN, NOTHING SO true as what you once let fall, "Most women have no characters at all." U S Matter too soft a lasting mark to bear, And best distinguish'd by black, brown, or fair. Come then, the colours and the ground prepare! Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of this minute. Rufa, whose eye, quick glancing o'er the Park, Attracts each light gay meteor of a spark, The frail-one's advocate, the weak-one's friend. And good Simplicius asks of her advice. Sudden, she storms! she raves! You tip the wink, But spare your censure; Silia does not drink. All eyes may see from what the change arose, Papillia, wedded to her amorous spark, Sighs for the shades" How charming is a park!" A park is purchas'd, but the fair he sees All bath'd in tears-" Oh odious, odious trees!" 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 Calypso once each heart alarm'd, To make a wash, would hardly stew a child; Now deep in Taylor and the Book of Martyrs, A very heathen in the carnal part, Yet still a sad good Christian at her heart. She sins with poets through pure love of wit. The nose of Haut-gout, and the tip of Taste, Flavia's a wit, has too much sense to pray; Wise wretch! with pleasures too refin'd to please; With too much thinking to have common thought. |