Of all god's works! creature in whom excell'd,
Whatever can to sight or thought be form'd,"
Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet!
How art thou lost!

Men drop so fast, ere life's mid stage we tread,
Few know so many friends alive as dead.
Yet, as immortal, in our uphill chace
We press coy fortune with unslacken'd pace;
Our ardent labors for the toys we seek
Join night to day, and Sunday to the week.
Our very joys are anxious, and expire
Between satiety and fierce desire.

Now what reward for all this grief and toil?
But one a female friend's endearing smile;
A tender smile, our sorrow's only balm,
And, in life's tempest, the sad sailor's calm.
How have I seen a gentle nymph draw nigh,
Peace in her air, persuasion in her eye;
Victorious tenderness! it all o'ercaine;
Husbands look'd mild, and savages grew tame.
The sylvan race our active nymphs pursue;
Man is not all the game they have in view:
In woods and fields their glory they complete,
There Master Betty leaps a five-barr'd gate;
While fair Miss Charles to toilets is confin'd,
Nor rashly tempts the barb'rous sun and wind.
Some nymphs affect a more heroic breed,
And vault from hunters to the manged steed;
Command his prancings with a martial air;
And Fobert has the forming of the fair.

Sempronia lik'd her man, and well she might,
The youth in person and in parts was bright;
Possess'd of ev'ry virtue, grace, and art,
That claims just empire o'er the female heart.
He inet her passion, all her sighs return'd,
And in full rage of youthful ardor burn'd.
Large his possessions, and beyond her own:
Their bliss the thenie and envy of the town.
The day was fix'd; when, with one acre more,
In step deform'd. debauch'd, diseas'd threescore.
The fatal sequel I thro' shame forbear:
Of pride and av'rice who can cure the fair?

Man's rich with little, were his judgement true.
Nature is frugal, and her wants are few;
Those few wants answer'd bring sincere delights,
But fools create themselves new appetites.
Fancy and pride scek things at vast expence,
Which relish nor to reason nor to sense.
When surfeit or unthankfulness destroys,
In nature's narrow sphere, our solid joys,
In fancy's airy land of noise and show,
Where nought but dreains, no real pleasures grow,
Like cats in air pumps, to subsist we strive
On joys too thin to keep the soul alive.

Leinira's sick, make haste, the doctor call:
He comes; but where's his patient? At the ball.
The doctor stares, her woman curt'sies low,
And cries, 66
My lady, Sir, is always so.
"Diversions put her maladies to flight; [night.
"True, she can't stand, but she can dance all
"I've known my lady (for she loves a tune)

green fruit agree;
"With indigestions, supper just at three."
A strange alternative! replies Sir Hans ;
Must women have a doctor, or a dance?
Tho' sick to death, abroad they safely roam;
But droop and die, in perfect health at home.
For want- but not of health -are ladies ill;
And tickets cure beyond the doctor's pill.

Alas! my heart, how languishingly fair
Yon lady lolls! with what a tender air!
Pale as a young dramatic author, when
O'er darling lines fell Cibber waves his pen.
Is her lord angry, or as Viny chid?
Dead is her father, or the mask forbid ?
"Late sitting up has turn'd her roses white."
Why went she not to bed?" Because 'twas
night."

More than one steed must Delia's empire feel," For fevers take an opera in June; [bold, Who sits triumphant o'er the flying wheel: "And though perhaps you'll think the practice And, as she guides it thro' th' admiring throng!" A midnight park is sov'reign for a cold. With what an air she smacks the silken thong!" With colics, breakfasts of Graceful as John she moderates the reins, And whistles sweet her diuretic strains. Sesostris-like, such charioteers as these May drive six harness'd monarchs,if they please. They drive, row, run, with love of glory smit; Leap, swim, shoot flying, and pronounce on wit. O'er the belles lettres lovely Daphne reigns, Again the god Apollo wears her chains. With legs toss'd high on her sophee she sits, Vouchsafing audience to contending wits; Of each performance she 's the final test; One act read o'er, she prophesies the rest; And then pronouncing with decisive air, Fully convinces all the town-she's fair. Had lovely Daphne Hecatessa's face, How would her elegance of taste decrease! Some ladies' judgement in their features lies, And all their genius sparkles from their eyes. But hold, she cries, lampooner! have a care: Must I want common sense because I'm fair? Oh no! see Stella: her eyes shine as bright As if her tongue was never in the right; And yet what real learning, judgement, fire! She seems inspir'd, and can herself inspire. How then (if malice rul'd not all the fair) Could Daphne publish, and could she forbear? We grant that beauty is no bar to sense, Nor is 't a sanction for impertinence.

Did she then dance or play?" Nor this or that."
Well night soon steals away in pleasing chat.

No, all alone, her pray'rs she rather chose,
"Than be that wretch to sleep till morning rose."
Then Lady Cynthia, mistress of the shade,
Goes with the fashionable owls, to bed.
This her pride covets, this her health denies ;
Her soul is silly, but her body's wise.

Others with curious arts dim charms revive,
And triumph in the bloom of fifty-five.
You in the morning a fair nymph invite,
To keep her word a brown one comes at night;
• Lap-dog.

Next day she shines in glossy black and then
Revolves into her native red again.
Like a dove's neck, she shifts hertransientcharmis,
And is her own dear rival in your arms.

But one admirer has the painted lass;
Nor finds that one tut in her looking-glass.
Yet Laura's beautiful to such excess,
That all her art scarce makes her please the less:
To deck the female cheek. He only knows,
Who paints less fair the lily and the rose. [pours,
How gay they smile! such blessings nature
O'erstock'd mankind ergoy but half her stores;
In distant wilds, by human eyes unseen,
She rears her flow 'rs, andspreads her velvetgreen.
Pure gurgling rills the lonely desart trace,
And waste their music on the a Cavage race.
Is Nature then a niggard of her bliss?
Repine we guildess in a world like this?
But our lewd tastes her lawful charms refuse,
And painted art's deprav'd allurements choose.
Such Fulvio's passion for the town; fresh air
(An odd effect!) gives vapors to the fair:
Green fields, and shady groves,anderystal-prings,
And larks and nightingales, are edious things:
Butsmoke,anddust, and noise, anderowds, delight;
And to be prest to death, transports her quite.
Where silver riv lets play thro' flow'ry meads,
And woodbines give their sweets, and limes their |
Black kennels' absent odors she regrets, [shades,
And stops her nose at beds of : iolets.

Is stormy life preferr'd to this serene?
Or is the public to the private scene?
Retir'd, we tread a smooth and open way;
Thro' briers and brambles, in the world we
Suff opposition, and perplex'd debate,
And thorny care, and rank and stinging late,
Which choke our passage, our career control,
And wound the firmnest temper of the soul.
O sacred solitude, divine retreat!

[stray,

With what well-acted transport will she say,
Well, sure, we were so happy yesterday!

And then that charming party for to-morrow!*
Tho' well she knows 'twill languish into sorrow.
But she dares never boast the present hour;
So gross that cheat, it is beyond her pow't.
For such is or our weakness or our curse,

Or rather such our crime, which still is worse,
The present moment, like a wife, we shun,
And he'er enjoy, because it is our own.

Pleasures are few, and fewer we enjoy ;
Pleasure, like quicksilver, is bright and cny;
We strive to grasp it, with our utmost skill,
Still ic cludes us, and it glitters still:
If seis'd at last, compute your mighty gains;
What is it but rank poison in your veins?

As Flavia in her glass an angel spies,
Pride whispers in her ear pernicious lies;
Tells her, while she surveys a face so fine,
There's no satiety of charms divine:
Hence, if her lover yawns, all chang'd appears
Her temper, and she melts (sweet soul!) in tears.
She, fond and young, last week her wish enjoy'd,
In soft amusement all the night employ'd;
The morning came, when Strephon waking found
(Surprising sight!) his bride in sorrow drown'd.
What miracle, 'saysStrephon, 'makes thee weep?"
Ah barbarous man!' slie cries, how could you
Men love a mistress as they love a feast; [sleep?"
How grateful one to touch, and one to taste!
Yet sure there is a certain time of day,
We wish our mistress and our meat away.
But soon the sated appetites return:
Again our stomachs crave, our bosoms burn.
Eternal love let Man then never swear;
Let women never triumph, nor despair.
Nor praise nor blame too much the warm or chill;
Hunger and love are foreign to the will.
There is indeed a passion more refin`d,
For those few nymphs whose charms are of the
But not of that anfashionable set
[wind:
Is Phillis: Phillis and her Damon met.
Eternal love exactly hits her taste;
Phillis demands eternal love at least.
Embracing Phillis with soft siniling eyes,
Eternal love I vow, the swain replies:

Choice of the prudent, envy of the great!
By thy pure stream, or in thy waving shade,
We court fair Wisdom, that celestial maid :
The genuine offspring of her lov'd embrace
(Strangers on earth!) are Innocence and Peace.
There, from the ways of men laid safe ashore,
We smile to hear the distant tempest roar;
There, blest with health, with business unper-But say, my all, my mistress, and my friend!
This life we relish and ensure the next;[plex'd,
There to the Muses sport; these numbers free,
Pierian Eastbury! I owe to thee.

There sport the Muses but not here alone;
Their sacred force Amelia feels in town.
Naught but a genies can a genius fit;
A wit herself, Amelia weds a wit.
Both wits! tho' miracles are said to cease,
Three days, three wondrous days they liv'd in
With thefourth sun a warm dispute arose [peace,
On Durfey's poesy, and Bunyan's prose.
The learned war both wage with equal force,
And the fifth morn concluded the divorce.

Phoebe, tho' she possesses nothing less,
Is proud of being rich in happiness;
Laboriously pursues delusive toys,

What day next week th' eternity shall end?
Some nymphs prefer astronomy to love;
Elope from mortal men, and range above.
The fair philosopher to Rowley flies,
Where in a box the whole creation lies.
She sees the planets in their turns advance ;*
And scorns, Poitier, thy sublunary dance.
Of Desagulier she bespeaks fresh air,
And Whiston has engagements with the fair.

What vain experiments Sophronia tries!
"Tis not in air-pumps the gay colonel dies,
But tho' to-day this rage of science reigns
(O fickle sex!) soon end her learned pains.
Lo! Pug from Jupiter her heart has got,
Turns out the stars, and Newton is a sot.
Το turn; she never took the height

Content with pains, since they're reputed joys. Of Saturn, yet is ever in the right:

She

A violated decency now reigns;
And nymphs for failings take peculiar pains.
With Indian painters modern toasts agree,
The point they aim at is deformity:
They throw their persons with a hoyden air
Across the room, and toss into the chair.
So far their commerce with mankind is gone,
They for our manners have exchang'd their own.
The modest look, the castigated grace,
The gentle movement, and slow measur'd pace,
For which her lovers died, her parents paid,
Are indecorums with the modern maid.
Stiff forms are bad, but let not worse intrude,
Nor conquer art and nature to be rude.
Modern good-breeding carry to its height,
And Lady D's self will be polite.

Ye rising fair! ye bloom of Britain's isle!
When high-born Anna with a softeu'd smile
Leads on your train, and sparkles at your head,
What seeins most hard, is not to be well-bred.
Her bright example with success pursue,
And all but adoration is your due.

But adoration! give me something more,
Cries Lyce, on the borders of threescore;
Nought treads so silent as the foot of Time;
Hence we mistake our autumn for our prime :
'Tis greatly wise to know, before we 're told,
The melancholy news that we grow old.
Autumnal Lyce carries in her face
Memento mori to each public place.
Oh how your beating breast a mistress warms,
Who looks thro' spectacles to see your charms!
While rival undertakers hover round,
And with his spade the sexton marks the ground,
Intent not on her own, but others' doom,
She plans new conquests, and defrauds the tomb.
In vain the cock has summon'd sprights away,
She walks at noon, and blasts the bloom of day.
Gay rainbow silks her mellow charms infold,
And nought of Lyce but herself is old.
Her grizzled locks assume a smirkling grace,
And art has levell'd her deep-furrow'd face.
Her strange demand no mortal can approve;
We'll ask her blessing, but can 't ask her love.
She grants indeed a lady may decline
(All ladies but herself) at ninety-nine.

Who into shelter takes their tender bloom,
And forms their minds to fly from ills to come?
The mind when turn'd adrift, no rules to guide,
Drives at the mercy of the wind and tide;
Fancy and passion toss it to and fro,
Awhile torment, and then quite sink in woe.
Ye beauteous orphans ! since in silent dust
Your best example lies, my precepts trust.
Life swarms with ills; the boldest are afraid;
Where then is safety for a tender maid?
Unfit for conflict, round beset with woes,
And man, whom least she fears, her worst of foes!
When kind, most cruel; when oblig'd the most,
The least obliging, and by favors lost.
Cruel by nature, they for kindness hate,
And scorn you for those ills themselves create.
If on your fame our sex a blot has thrown,
"Twill ever stick thro' malice of your own.
Most hard! in pleasing your chief glory lies;
And yet from pleasing your chief dangers rise:
Then please the best; and know, for men of sense
Your strongest charms are native innocence.
Arts on the mind, like paint upon the face,
Fright him that 's worth your love from your
In simple manners all the secret lies; [embrace.
Be kind and virtuous, you'll be blest and wise.
Vain show and noise intoxicate the brain.
Begin with giddiness, and end in pain,
Affect not empty fame and idle praise,
Which all those wretches I describe betrays.
Your sex's glory 'tis to shine unknown;
Of all applause be foudest of your own.
Beware the fever of the mind; that thirst
With which this age is eminently curst.
To drink of pleasure but inflames desire,
And abstinence alone can quench the fire.
Take pain from life, and terror from the tomb,
Give peace in hand, and promise bliss to come.

I SOUGHT a patroness, but sought in vain:
Apollo whisper'd in my car →→“ Germain.”
I know her not. "Your reason's somewhat odd;
"Who knows his patron now?" replied the god.

"Then steal great names to shield them from
"the town.

"Detected worth, like beauty disarray'd,
"To covert flies, of praise itself afraid;
“Should she refuse to patronize your lays,
"In vengeance write a volume in her praise.
"Nor think it hard so great a length to run;
"When such the theme, 'twill easily be done."

O how unlike her was the sacred age Of prudent Portia! her grey hairs engage, Whose thoughts are suited to ber life's decline, Virtue's the paint that can make wrinkles shine." Men write, to me and to the world unknown; That, and that only, can old age sustain ; Which yet all wish, nor know they wish for pain. Not numerous are our joys when life is new, And yearly some are falling of the few ; But when we conquer life's meridian stage, And downward tend into the vale of age, They drop apace; by nature some decay, And some the blasts of fortune sweep away; Till, naked quite of happiness, aloud We call for death, and shelter in a shroud. Where's Portia now? But Portia left behind Two lovely copies of her form and mind. What heart untouch'd their early grief can view, Like blushing rose-buds dipt in morning dew?

Ye fair! to draw your excellence at length,
Exceeds the narrow bounds of human strength:
You hear in miniature your picture see;
Nor hope from Zincksmorejustice than from me.
My portraits grace your mind, as his your side;
His portraitswill inflame, mine quench your pride:

He's