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WHILST thirft of praife, and vain defire of fame,
In every age, is every woman's aim;

With courtship pleas'd, of filly toasters proud,
Fond of a train, and happy in a crowd;

On each poor fool bestowing fome kind glance,
Each conqueft owing to fome loose advance;
While vain coquets affect to be purfu'd,

And think they're virtuous, if not grofsly lewd;
Let this great maxim be my virtue's guide;

In

part

she is to blame that has been try'dHe comes too near that comes to be deny❜d.

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The

ᎣᎣᎣ ᎣᎣᎣᎣ

The GENTLEMAN's ANSWER.

WHILST pretty fellows think a woman's fame

In every state and every age the fame;

With their own folly pleas'd the fair they toast,
And where they leaft are happy, swear they're most 3
No difference making 'twixt coquet and prude;
And her that seems, yet is not really lewd;
While thus they think, and thus they vainly live,
And taste no joys but what their fancies give:
Let this great maxim be my action's guide,
May 'I ne'er hope, though I am ne'er deny'd;
Nor think a woman won, that's willing to be try'd.

ZeeeeeSGENDERANDE

An EPISTLE to Lord B

H

By the Same.

OW happy you! who varied joys pursue;

And every hour prefents you fomething new! Plans, schemes, and models, all Palladio's art, For fix long months have gain'd upon your heart;

Of

1

Of colonades, of corridores you talk,
The winding ftair-cafe and the cover'd walk
You blend the orders with Vitruvian toil,
And raise with wond'rous joy the fancy'd pile:

But the dull workman's flow performing hand

But coldly executes his lord's command.

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With dirt and mortar foon you grow difpleas'd,
Planting fucceeds, and avenues are rais'd,
Canals are cut, and mountains level made;
Bowers of retreat, and galleries of shade;
The shaven turf presents a lively green;
The bordering flow'rs in myftic knots are feen:
With ftudied art on nature you refine-

The spring beheld you warm in this defign,
But fcarce the cold attacks your fav'rite trees,
Your inclination fails, and wishes freeze.
You quit the grove, fo lately you admir'd;
With other views your eager hopes are fir'd,
Poft to the city you direct your way;
Not blooming paradife could bribe your stay :
Ambition fhews you power's brightest fide;
'Tis meanly poor in folitude to hide.
Though certain pains attend the cares of state,
A good man owes his country to be great;

Should

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Should act abroad the high distinguish'd part,

Or fhew at least the purpose of his heart.

With thoughts like these the fhining courts you seek
Full of new projects for almost a week:
You then despise the tinfel glittering fnare;
Think vile mankind below a ferious care.
Life is too fhort for any diftant aim;
And cold the dull reward of future fame :
Be happy then while yet you have to live;

And love is all the bleffing heav'n can give.
Fir'd by new passion you address the fair;
Survey the opera as a gay parterre :

Young Cloe's bloom had made you certain prize,
But for a fide-long glance from Celia's eyes:
Your beating heart acknowledges her power;
Your eager eyes her lovely form devour;
You feel the poifon fwelling in your breast,
And all your foul by fond defire poffess'd.
In dying fighs a long three hours are past;
To fome affembly with impatient haste,

1

With trembling hope, and doubtful fear you move,
Refolv❜d to tempt your fate, and own your love:
But there Belinda meets you on the stairs,

Eafy her shape, attracting all her airs;

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A fmile

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A fmile fhe gives, and with a smile can wound
Her melting voice has mufic in the found;
Her every motion wears refistless grace;

Wit in her mien, and pleasure in her face:
Here while you vow eternity of love,
Cloe and Celia unregarded move.

3

Thus on the fands of Afric's burning plains,
However deeply made, no long impress remains;
The lighteft leaf can leave its figure there ;
The strongest form is fcatter'd by the air.
So yielding the warm temper of your mind,
So touch'd by every eye, fo tofs'd by wind;
Oh! how unlike the heav'n my foul defign'd!
Unfeen, unheard, the throng around me move;
Not wishing praife, infenfible of love:
No whispers soften, nor no beauties fire;
Careless I fee the dance, and coldly hear the lyre.'
So num'rous herds are driven o'er the rock;

No print is left of all the paffing flock:

So fings the wind around the folid stone:

So vainly beat the waves with fruitlefs moan.
Tedious the toil, and great the workman's care,
Who dare attempt to fix impreffions there :

But

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