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I own 't was wrong, when thousands call'd me back, 1 Gaudy devotion, like a Roman, shown,
To make that hopeless, ill-advis'd, attack ;

And sung sweet anthems in a tongue unknotne
All say, 't was madness; nor dare I deny; Inferior offerings to thy god of vice
Sure never fool so well deserv'd to die."

Are duly paid, in fideles, cards, and dice; Could this deceive in others, to be free,

Thy sacrifice supreme, an hundred maids ! It ne'er, Vincenna, could deceive in thee;

That solemn rite of midnight masquerades! Whose conduct is a comment to thy tongue, If maids the quite exhausted town denies, So clear, the dullest cannot take thee wrong. An hundred head of cuckolds may suffice. Thou on one sleeve wilt thy revenues wear; Thou smil'st, well pleas'd with the converted land And haunt the court, without a prospect there. To see the fifty churches at a stand. Are these expedients for renown? Confess And that thy minister may never fail, Thy little self, that I may scorn thee less.

But what thy hand has planted still prevail, Be wise, Vincenna, and the court forsake; Of minor prophets a succession sure Our fortunes there, nor thou nor I shall make. The propagation of thy zeal secure. Even men of merit, ere their point they gain, See commons, peers, and ministers of state, In hardy service make a long campaign ;

In solemn council met, and deep debate ! Most manfully besiege the patron's gate,

What god-like enterprise is taking birth? And, oft repuls'd, as oft attack the great

What wonder opens on th' expecting Earth? With painful art, and application warm,

'T' is done ! with loud applause the council rings! And take, at last, some little place by storm; Fix'd is the fate of whores and fiddle-strings ! Enough to keep two shoes on Sunday clean,

Though bold these truths, thou, Muse, with truths And starve upon discreetly, in Sheer-Lane.

like these, Already this thy fortune can afford;

Wilt none offend, whom 't is a praise to please: Then starve without the favour of my lord. Let others Hatter to be flatter'd; thou, 'T is true, great fortunes some great men confer : Like just tribunals, bend an aweful brow. But often, even in doing right, they err :

How terrible it were to common-sense, From caprice, not from choice, their favours come: To write a satire, which gave none offence! They give, but think it toil to know to whom : And, since from life I take the draughts you see,

The man that 's nearest, yawning, they advance : If men dislike them, do they censure me? 'T is inhumanity to bless by chance.

The fool, and knave, 't is glorious to offend, If nucrit sues, and greatness is so loth

And god-like an attempt the world to mend; To break its downy trance, I pity both.

The world, where lucky throws to blockheads fal, I grant at court, Philander, at his need,

K'naves know the game, and honest men pay all (Thanks to his lovely wife,) finds friends indeed. How hard for real worth to gain its price! Of every charm and virtue she's possest :

A man shall make his fortune in a trice, Philander ! thou art exquisitely blest ;

If blest with pliant, though but slender, sense, The public envy! Now then, 't is allow'd,

Feign'd modesty, and real impudence : The man is found, who may be justly proud: A supple knee, smooth tongue, an easy grzce, But, see ! how sickly is ambition's taste !

A curse within, a smile upon his face :
Ambition feeds on trash, and loaths a feast; A beauteous sister, or convenient wife,
For, lo! Philander, of reproach afraid,

Are prizes in the lottery of life;
In secret loves his wife, but keeps her maid. Genius and virtue they will soon defeat,

Some nymphs sell reputation ; others buy ; And lodge you in the bosom of the great.
And love a market where the rates run high : To merit, is but to provide a pain
Italian music 's sweet, because 't is dear;

For men's refusing what you ought to gain.
Their vanity is tickled, not their ear :

May, Dodington, this maxim fail in you, Their tastes would lessen, if the prices fell,

Whom my presaging thoughts already view And Shakspeare's wretched stuff do quite as well; By Walpole's conduct fir'd, and friendship grad, Away the disenchanted fair would throng,

Still higher in your prince's favour plac'd; And own, that English is their mother tongue. And lending, here, those aweful councils aid,

To show how much our northern tastes refine, Which you, abroad, with such success obey'd! Imported nymphs our peeresses outshine ;

Bear this from one, who holds your friendship dear; While tradesmen starve, these Philomels are gay ; What most we wish, with ease we fancy pear. For generous lords had rather give than pay.

Behold the masquerade's fantastic scene ! The legislature join'd with Drury-Lane !

SATIRE IV. When Britain calls, th' embroider'd patriots run, And serve their country — if the dunce is done. “ Are we not then allow'd to be polite ?" Yes, doubtless! but first set your notions right. Round some fair tree th' ambitious Woodbine Worth, of politeness is the needful ground;

grows, Where that is wanting, this can ne'er be found. And breathes her sweets on the supporting bougts: Triflers not e'en in trifes can excel;

So sweet the verse, th' ambitious verse, should be, 'T is solid bodies only polish well.

(0! pardon mine) that hopes support from thee; Great, chosen prophet! for these latter days, Thee, Compton, born o'er senates to preside, To turn a willing world from righteous ways ! Their dignity to raise, their councils guide ; Well, Heydegger, dost thou thy master serve ; Deep to discern, and widely to survey, Well has he seen his servant should not starve. And kingdoms' fates, without ambition, weigh; Thou to his name hast splendid temples rais'd; Of distant virtues nice extremes to blend, In various forms of worship seen him prais'd, The crown's assertor, and the people's friend:



Vor dost thou scorn, amid sublimer views, Most charitably lends the town his fuce,
Co listen to the labours of the Muse;

For ornament, in every public place;
l'hy smiles protect her, while thy talents fire, As sure as cards, he to th' assembly comes,
Ind 't is but half thy glory to inspire.

And is the furniture of drawing-rooms : Tex'd at a public fame, so justly won,

When ombre calls, his hand and heart are free, The jealous Chremes is with spleen undone ; And, join'd to two, he fails not — to make three : Chremes, for airy pensions of renown,

Narcissus is the glory of his race; Devotes his service to the state and crown : For who does nothing with a better grace ? All schemes he knows, and, knowing, all improves, To deck my list, by nature were design’d Though Britain thankless, still this patriot loves : Such shining erpletives of human kind, But patriots differ; some may shed their blood, Who want, while through blank life they dream le drinks his coffee, for the public good;

along, Consults the sacred steam, and there foresees Sense to be right, and passion to be wrong. Vhat storms, or sunshine, Providence decrees ; To counterpoise this hero of the mode, (nows, for each day, the weather of our fate; Some for renown are singular and odd; quidnunc is an almanac of state.

What other men dislike, is sure to please, You smile, and think this statesman void of use; Of all mankind, these dear antipodes ; Vhy may not time his secret worth produce ? Through pride, not malice, they run counter still, ince apes can roast the choice Castanian nut ; And birth-days are their days of dressing ill. ince steeds of genius are expert at put;

Arbuthnot is a fool, and F

a sage, ince half the Senate “ Not content" can say,

S-ly will fright you, E— engage; jeese nations save, and puppies plots betray. By nature streams run backward, flame descends, What makes him model realms, and counsel Stones mount, and Sussex is the worst of friends; kings?

They take their rest by day, and wake by night, An incapacity for smaller things :

And blush, if you surprise them in the right; Poor Chremes can't conduct his own estate, If they by chance blurt out, ere well aware, İnd thence has undertaken Europe's fate. A swan is white, or Queensberry is fair. Sehenno leaves the realm to Chremes' skill,

Nothing exceeds in ridicule, no doubt, Ind boldly claims a province higher still :

A fool in fashion, but a fool that 's out. to raise a name, th' ambitious boy has got,

His passion for absurdity 's so strong, It once, a Bible, and a shoulder-knot ;

He cannot bear a rival in the wrong ;
Deep in the secret, he looks through the whole, Though wrong the mode, comply; more sense is
Ind pities the dull rogue that saves his soul;

Co talk with rev'rence you must take good heed, In wearing others' follies, than your own.
Nor shock his tender reason with the Creed; If what is out of fashion most you prize,
Howe'er well-bred, in public he complies, Methinks you should endeavour to be wise.
Obliging friends alone with blasphemies.

But what in oddness can be more sublime
Peerage is poison, good estates are bad

Than Sloane, the foremost toyman of his time? For this disease ; poor rogues run seldom mad. His nice ambition lies in curious fancies, Have not attainders brought unhop'd relief, His daughter's portion a rich shell inhances, And falling stocks quite cur'd an unbelief? And Ashmole's baby-house is, in his view, While the Sun shines, Blunt talks with wondrous Britannia's golden mine, a rich Peru !

How his eyes languish ! how his thoughts adore But thunder mars small beer, and weak discourse. That painted coat, which Joseph never wore ! such useful instruments the weather show,

He shows, on holidays, a sacred pin, Just as their mercury is high or low :

That touch'd the ruff, that touch'd Queen Bess's chin. Health chiefly keeps an atheist in the dark ;

“ Since that great dearth our chronicles deplore, A fever argues better than a Clarke :

Since that great plague that swept as many more, Let but the logic in his pulse decay,

Was ever year unblest as this ??he 'll cry, The Grecian he 'll renounce, and learn to pray; “ It has not brought us one new butterfly!. While C-mourns, with an unfeigned zeal, In times that suffer such learn'd men as these, Th' apostate youth, who reason'd once so well. Unhappy 1-y! how came you to please ? who makes merry with the Creed,

Not gaudy butterflies are Lico's game; He almost thinks he disbelieves indeed;

But, in effect, his chase is much the same : But only thinks so: to give both their due, Warm in pursuit, he levées all the great, Satan, and he, believe, and tremble too.

Stanch to the foot of title and estate : Of some for glory such the boundless rage, Where'er their lordships go, they nev

find That they 're the blackest scandal of their age. Or Lico, or their shadows, lag behind , Narcissus the Tartarian club disclaims;

He sets them sure, where'er their lordships run, Nay, a free-mason, with some terrour, names ; Close at their elbows, as a morning-dun; Omits no duty; nor can envy say,

As if their grandeur by contagion wrought,
He miss'd, these many years, the church, or play: And fame was like a fever, to be caught :
He makes no noise in parliament, 't is true; But after seven years' dance, from place to place,
But pays his debts, and visit, when 't is due ; The Dane • is more familiar with his grace.
His character and gloves are ever clean,

Who 'd be a crutch to prop a rotten peer ;
And then, he can out-bow the bowing dean ; Or living pendant dangling at his ear,
A smile eternal on his lip he wears,

For ever whispering secrets, which were blown
Which equally the wise and worthless shares. For months before, by trumpets through the town?
In gay fatigues, this most undaunted chief,
Patient of idleness beyond belicf,

• A Danish dog of the Duke of Argyll.

force ;

Who'd be a glass, with flattering grimace, Fame 's a reversion, in which men take place Still to reflect the temper of his face ?

(O late reversion !) at their own decease. Or happy pin to stiek upon his sleeve,

This truth sagacious Lintot knows so well, When my lord 's gracious, and vouchsafes it leave ? He starves his authors, that their works may se Or cushion, when his heaviness shall please

That fame is wealth, fantastic poets cry; To loll, or thump it, for his better ease ?

That wealth is fame, another clan reply; Or a vile butt, for noon, or night, bespoke, Who know no guilt, no scandal, but in rags; When the peer rashly swears he 'll club his joke ? And swell in just proportion to their bags. Who 'd shake with laughter, though he could not Nor only the low-born, deformd, and old, find

Think glory nothing but the beams of gold; His lordship's jest; or, if his nose broke wind, The first young lord, which in the Mall you mee, For blessings to the gods profoundly bow,

Shall match the veriest hunks in Lombard-street, That can cry, “Chimney sweep," or drive a plough? From rescued candles' ends who rais'd a sum, With terms like these, how mean the tribe that close ! | And starves, to join a penny to a plum. Scarce meaner they, who terms like these impose. A beardless miser! 'T is a guilt unknow

But what 's the tribe most likely to comply? To former times, a scandal all our own. The men of ink, or ancient authors lye;

Of ardent lovers, the true modern band The writing tribe, who shameless auctions hold Will mortgage Celia to redeem their land. Of praise, by inch of candle to be sold :

For love, young, noble, rich, Castalio dies; All men they flatter, but themselves the most, Name but the fair, love swells into his eyes. With deathless fame, their everlasting boast : Divine Monimia, thy fond fears lay down; For Fame no cully makes so much her jest, No rival can prevail — but half a croren. As her old constant spark, the bard profest.

He glories to late times to be convey'd, “ Boyle shines in council, Mordaunt in the fight, Not for the poor he has reliev'd, but made: Pelham's magnificent; but I can write,

Not such ambition his great fathers fir'da And what to my great soul like glory dear ?" When Harry conquer'd, and half France expir'd: Till some god whispers in his tingling ear, He'd be a slave, a pimp, a dog, for gain : That fame's unwholesome taken without meat, Nay, a dull sheriff for his golden chain. And life is best sustain'd by what is eat :

“ Who'd be a slave?" the gallant Colonel cries Grown lean, and wise, he curses what he writ, While love of glory sparkles from his eyes. And wishes all bis wants were in his wit.

To deathless fame he loudly pleads his right Ah! what avails it, when his dinner 's lost, Just is his title - for he will not fight : That his triumphant name adorns a post ?

All soldiers valour, all divines have grace, Or that his shining page (provoking fate!) As maids of honour beauty — by their place: Defends sirloins, which sons of dullness eat? But, when indulging on the last campaign,

What foe to verse without compassion hears, His lofty terms climb o'er the hills of slain; What cruel prose-man can refrain from tears, He gives the foes he slew, at each rain word, When the poor Muse, for less than half-a-crown, A sweet revenge, and half absolves his sword A prostitute on every hulk in town,

Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid, With other whores undone, though not in print, A soldier snould be modest as a maid: Clubs credit for Geneva in the Mint ?

Fame is a bubble the reserv'd enjoy ; Ye bards ! why will you sing, though uninspir'd? Who strive to grasp it, as they touch, destros, Ye bards ! why will you starve, to be admir'd ? 'T is the world's debt to deeds of high degree; Defunct by Phæbus' laws, beyond redress, But if you pay yourself, the world is free. Why will your spectres haunt the frighted press ? Were there no tongue to speak them but his own, Bad metre, that excrescence of the head,

Augustus' deeds in arms had ne'er been known. Like hair, will sprout, although the poet 's dead. Augustus' deeds! if that ambiguous name

All other trades demand, verse-makers beg; Confounds my reader, and misguides his aim, A dedication is a wooden-leg ;

Such is the prince's worth, of whom I speak; A barren Labeo, the true mumper's fashion, The Roman would not blush at the mistake. Exposes borrow'd brats to move compassion. Though such myself, vile bards I discommend; Nay more, though gentle Damon is my friend.

SATIRE V. “ Is 't then a crime to write ?”-If talent rare Proclaim the god, the crime is to forbear :

ON WOMEN For some, though few, there are, large-minded men,

O fairest of creation ! last and best ! Who watch unseen the labours of the pen;

Of all God's works! Creature in whom excell'd, Who know the Muse's worth, and therefore court, Whatever can to sight, or thought, be form'd Their deeds her theme, their bounty her support; Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet! Who serve, unask'd, the least pretence to wit ; How art thou lost!

MILTON My sole excuse, alas ! for having writ. Argyll true wit is studious to restore ;

Nor reigns ambition in bold man alone; And Dorset smiles, if Phæbus smil'd before ; Soft female hearts the rude invader own; Pembroke in years the long-lov'd arts admires, But there, indeed, it deals in nicer things, And Henrietta like a Muse inspires.

Than routing armies, and dethroning kings:
But ah! not inspiration can obtain

Attend, and you discern it in the fair
That fame, which poets languish for in vain. Conduct a finger, or reclaim a hair ;
How mad their aim, who thirst for glory, strive Or roll the lucid orbit of an eye;
To grasp, what no man can possess alive!

Or, in full joy, elaborate a sigh.

The sex we honour, though their faults we Can vent her thunders, and her lightnings play, blame;

O'er cooling gruel, and composing tea : ay, thank their faults for such a fruitful theme: Nor rests by night, but, more sincere than nice, theme, fair ! doubly kind to me,

She shakes the curtains with her kind advice : nce satirizing those is praising thee;

Doubly, like echo, sound is her delight, 'ho wouldst not bear, too modestly refin'd, And the last word is her eternal right. panegyric of a grosser kind.

Is 't not enough plagues, wars, and famines, rise Britannia's daughters, much more fair than nice, To lash our crimes, but must our wives be wise ? oo fond of admiration, lose their price;

Famine, plague, war, and an unnumber'd throng 'orn in the public eye, give cheap delight Of guilt-avenging ills, to man belong : o throngs, and tarnish to the sated sight:

What black, what ceaseless cares besiege our state! s unreserv'd, and beauteous, as the Sun,

What strokes we feel from fancy, and from fate! hrough every sign of vanity they run;

If fate forbears us, fancy strikes the blow; ssemblies, parks, coarse feasts in city-balls ; We make misfortune; suicides in woe. ectures, and trials, plays, committees, balls, Superfluous aid! unnecessary skill! ells, bedlams, executions, Smithfield scenes, Is Nature backward to torment, or kill ? nd fortune-tellers, caves, and lions' dens, How oft the noon, how oft the midnight, bell, averns, exchanges, bridewells, drawing-rooms, (That iron tongue of Death !) with solemn knell, ustalments, pillories, coronations, tombs,

On Folly's errands as we vainly roam, (home! umblers, and funerals, puppet-shows, reviews, Knocks at our hearts, and finds our thoughts from ales, races, rabbits, (and, still stranger!) pews. Men drop so fast, ere life's mid-stage we tread,

Clarinda's bosom burns, but burns for Fame; Few know so many friends, alive, as deada nd love lies vanquish'd in a nobler flame; Yet, as immortal, in our up-hill chase Varm gleams of hope she, now, dispenses ; then, We press coy Fortune with unslacken'd pace; ike April suns, dives into clouds again :

Our ardent labours for the toys we seek, Vith all her lustre, now, her lover warms; Join night to day, and Sunday to the week: 'hen, out of ostentation, hides her charms; Our very joys are anxious, and expire. [ is, next, her pleasure sweetly to complain, Between satiety and fierce desire. und to be taken with a sudden pain ;

Now what reward for all this grief and toil ? 'hen, she starts up, all ecstasy and bliss,

But one, a female friend's endearing smile; and is, sweet soul! just as sincere in this: A tender smile, our sorrows' only balm, ) how she rolls her charming eyes in spite ! And, in life's tempest, the sad sailor's calm. And looks delightfully with all her might !

How have I seen a gentle nymph draw nigh, But, like our heroes, much more brave than wise, Peace in her air, persuasion in her eye; ihe conquers for the triumph, not the prize. Victorious tenderness! it all o'ercame, Zara resembles Ætna crown'd with snows;

Husbands look'd mild, and savages grew tame, Nithout she freezes, and within she glows :

The sylvan race our active nymphs pursue ; ['wice ere the Sun descends, with zeal inspir'd, Man is not all the game they have in view : from the vain converse of the world retir'd, In woods and fields their glory they complete ; she reads the psalms and chapters for the day, There Master Betty leaps a five-barr'd gate; in- Cleopatra, or the last new play.

While fair Miss Charles to toilets is confin'd, Thus gloomy Zara, with a solemn grace,

Nor rashly tempts the barbarous sun and wind. Deceives mankind, and hides behind her fuce. Some nymphs affect a more heroic breed, Nor far beneath her in renown, is she,

And volt from hunters to the managed steed; Who through good-breeding is ill company;

Command his prancings with a martial air, Whose manners will not let her larum cease, And Fobert has the forming of the fair. Who thinks you are unhappy, when at peace;

More than one steed must Delia's empire feel, To find you news, who racks her subtle head, Who sits triumphant o'er the Aying wheel ; And vows — “ that her great-grandfather is dead." And as she guides it through th' admiring throng,

A dearth of words a woman need not fear ; With what an air she smacks the silken thong ! But 't is a task indeed to learn - - to hear :

Graceful as John, she moderates the reins, In that the skill of conversation lies ;

And whistles sweat her diuretic strains : That shows, or makes, you both polite and wise. Sesostris-like, such charioteers as these Xantippe cries, “ Let nymphs who nought can May drive six harness'd monarchs, if they please : say

They drive, row, run, with love of glory smit, Be lost in silence, and resign the day ;

Leap, swim, shoot flying, and pronounce on wit. And let the guilty wife ber guilt confess,

O'er the belles-lettres lovely Daphne reigns ; By tame behaviour, and a soft address !"

Again the god Apollo wears her chains : Through virtue, she refuses to comply

With legs toss'd high, on her sophee she sits, With all the dictates of humanity ;

Vouchsafing audience to contending wits: Through wisdom, she refuses to submit

Of each performance she 's the final test; To wisdom's rules, and raves to prove her wit ;

One act read o'er, she prophesies the rest; Then, her unblemish'd honour to maintain, And then, pronouncing with decisive air, Rejects her husband's kindness with disdain : Fully convinces all the town - she 's fair. But if, by chance, an ill-adapted word

Had lovely Daphne Hecatessa's face, Drops from the lip of her unwary lord,

How would her elegance of taste decrease ! Her darling china, in a whirlwind sent,

Some ladies' judgment in their features lies, Just intimates the lady's discontent.

And all their genius sparkles from their eyes. Wine may indeed excite the meekest dame; “ But hold," she cries, “ lampooner ! have a care ; But keen Xantippe, scorning borrow'd flame, Must I want common sense, because I'm fair ?”

O no: see Stella ; her eyes shine as bright, You, in the morning, a fair nymph invite ;
As if her tongue was never in the right;

To keep her word, a brown one comes at night:
And yet what real learning, judgment, fire ! Next day she shines in glossy black ; and then
She seems inspir’d, and can herself inspire : Revolves into her native red again:
How then (if malice rul'd not all the fair)

Like a dove's neck, she shifts her transient chan Could Daphne publish, and could she forbear? And is her own dear rival in your arms We grant that beauty is no bar to sense,

But one admirer has the painted lass; Nor is 't a sanction for impertinence.

Nor tinds that one, but in her looking-glass : Sempronia lik'd her man; and well she might; Yet Laura 's beautiful to such excess, The youth in person, and in parts, was bright; That all her art scarce makes her please us less Possess'd of every virtue, grace, and art,

To deck the female cheek, HE only knows, That claims just empire o'er the female heart : Who paints less fair the lily and the rose. [poses He met her passion, all her siglis return'd,

How gay they smile! Such blessings Nature And, in full rage of youthful ardour, burn'd: O'erstock'd mankind enjoy but half her stores: Large his possessions, and beyond her own; In distant wilds, by human eyes unseen, Their bliss the theme and envy of the town: She rears her flowers, and spreads her velvet green; The day was fix’d, when, with one acre more, Pure gurgling rills the lonely desert trace, In stepp'd deform'd, debauch'd, diseas'd, threescore. And waste their music on the savage race. The fatal sequel I, through shame, forbear ; Is Nature then a niggard of her bliss ? of pride and avarice who can cure the fair ? Repine we guiltless in a world like this?

Man 's rich with little, were his judgment true; But our lewd tastes her lawful charms refuse, Nature is frugal, and her wants are few;

And painted art's deprar'd allurements choose 'Those few wants answer'd, bring sincere delights; Such Fulvia's passion for the town; fresh air But fools create themselves new appetites :

(An odd effect !) gives vapours to the fair ; Fancy and pride seek things at vast expense,

Green fields, and shady groves, and crystal spring Which relish not to reason, nor to sense.

And larks, and nightingales, are odious things; When surfeit, or unthankfulness, destroys,

But smoke, and dust, and noise, and crowds deligtt; i In nature's narrow sphere, our solid joys,

And to be press'd to death, transports her quite : In fancy's airy land of noise and show,

Where silver rivulets play through flowery means Where nought but dreams, no real pleasures grow; And woodbines give their sweets, and and the Like cals in air-pumps, to subsist we strive

shades, On joys too thin to keep the soul alive.

Black kennels' absent odours she regrets,
Lemira 's sick; make haste; the doctor call : And stops her nose at beds of violets.
He comes; but where 's his patient? At the ball. Is stormy life preferr'd to the serene?
The doctor stares ; her woman curt’sies low, Or is the public to the private scene?
And cries, “ My lady, sir, is always so :

Retir’d, we tread a smooth and open way:
Diversions put her maladies to flight;

Through briers and brambles in the world we stras; Truc, she can't stand, but she can dance all night : Stiff opposition, and perplex'd debate, I 've known my lady (for she loves a tune) And thorny care, and rank and stinging hate, For fevers take an opera in June :

Which choke our passage, our career controul,
And, though perhaps you 'll think the practice bold, And wound the firmest temper of our soul.
A midnight park is sovereign for a cold;

O sacred solitude ! divine retreat!
With colics, breakfasts of green fruit agree ; Choice of the prudent ! envy of the great!
With indigestions, supper just at three."

By thy pure stream, or in thy waving shade,
A strange alternative, replies Sir Hans,

We court fair Wisdom, that celestial maid : Must women have a doctor, or a dance ?

The genuine offspring of her lov'd embrace Though sick to death, abroad they safely roam, (Strangers on Earth!) are innocence and peac: But droop and die, in perfect health, at home : There, from the ways of men laid safe ashore, For want — but not of health, are ladies ill; We smile to hear the distant tempest roar; And tickets cure beyond the doctor's bill.

There, bless'd with henlth, with business unperpleid, Alas, my heart! how languishingly fair

This life we relish, and ensure the next; Yon lady lolls! With what a tender air !

There too the Muses sport; these numbers free, Pale as a young dramatic author, when,

Pierian Eastbury! I owe to thee. O'er darling lines, fell Cibber waves his pen. There sport the Muses ; but not there alone : Is her lord angry, or has Veny* chid ?

Their sacred force Amelia feels in town. Dead is her father, or the mask forbid ?

Nought but a genius can a genius fit; “ Late sitting-up has turn'd her roses white." A wit herself, Amelia weds a wit : Why went she not to bed ? " Because 't was night." Both wits! though miracles are said to cease, Did she then dance or play ? “ Nor this, nor that.” Three days, three wondrous days! they liv'd in Well, night soon steals away in pleasing chat.

peace; “ No, all alone, her prayers she rather chose, Vith the fourth sun a warm dispute arose, Than be that wretch to sleep till morning rose." On Durfey's poesy, and Bunyan's prose: Then lady Cynthia, mistress of the shade,

The learned war both wage with equal force, Goes, with the fashionable owls, to bed :

And the fifth morn concluded the divorce. This her pride covets, this her health denies ;

Phæbe, though she possesses nothing less, Her soul is silly, but her body 's wise.

Is proud of being rich in happiness ; Others, with curious arts, dim charms revive, Laboriously pursues delusive togs And triumph in the bloom of fifty-five.

Content with pains, since they 're reputed jors

With what well-acted transport will she say,

“ Well, sure we were so happy yesterday!

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