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Narciffa's nature, tolerably mild,

To make a wash, would hardly ftew a child; Has e'en been prov'd to grant a Lover's pray'r, And paid a Tradesman once to make him stare; Gave alms at Easter, in a Chriftian trim,

And made a Widow happy, for a whim.

Why then declare Good-nature is her fcorn,

When 'tis by that alone she can be borne ?

Why pique all mortals, yet affect a name?
A fool to Pleasure, yet a slave to Fame:

Now deep in Taylor, and the Book of Martyrs,
Now drinking Citron with his Grace and Chartres:
Now Confcience chills her, and now Paffion burns;
And Atheism and Religion take their turns;
A very Heathen in the carnal part,

Yet ftill a fad, good Christian at her heart.

See Sin in State, majeftically drunk ;
Proud as a Peeress, prouder as a Punk;
Chafte to her Husband, frank to all befide,
A teeming Mistress, but a barren Bride.
What then? let Blood and Body bear the fault;
Her Head's untouch'd, that noble Seat of Thought:
Such this day's doctrine-in another fit

She fins with Poets through pure love of Wit.
What has not fir'd her bofom or her brain ?
Cafar and Tall-boy, Charles and Charlemaine.
As Helluo, late Dictator of the Feast,
The Nofe of Haut-goût, and the Tip of Tafte,
Critiqu'd your wine, and analyz'd your meat,
Yet on plain pudding deign'd at home to eat:

So

So Philomedé, lect'ring all mankind
On the foft Paffion, and the Tafte refin'd,
Th'Addrefs, the Delicacy-toops at once,
And makes her hearty meal upon a Dunce.

Flavia's a Wit, has too much fenfe to pray
To toast our wants and wishes, is her way;
Nor afks of God, but of her Stars, to give
The mighty bleffing, "while we live, to live."
Then all for Death, that Opiate of the foul!
Lucretia's dagger, Rosamonda's bowl.

Say, what can caufe fuch impotence of mind?
A Spark too fickle, or a Spouse too kind.
Wife Wretch ! with pleasures too refin'd to please;
With too much Spirit to be e'er at ease;
With too mach Quickness ever to be taught;
With too much thinking to have common Thought;
You purchase pain with all that Joy can give,
And die of nothing but a Rage to live.

IBID. P. 125.

But what are these to great Atoffa's mind, Scarce once herself, by turns all Womankind! Who with herself, or others, from her birth, Finds all her life one warfare upon earth: Shines, in expofing Knaves, and painting Fools, Yet is, whate'er fhe hates and ridicules. No Thought advances, but her Eddy Brain Whisks it about, and down it goes again. Full fixty years the World has been her Trade, The wifeft Fool much Time has ever made.

From

From loveless youth to unrefpected age,
No Paffion gratify'd, except her Rage;
So much the Fury ftill out-ran the Wit,
The Pleasure miss'd her, and the Scandal hit.
Who breaks with her, provokes Revenge from Hell,
But he's a bolder man who dares be well.
Her ev'ry turn with Violence purfa'd,
Nor more a storm her Hate than Gratitude :
To that each Paffion turns, or foon or late;
Love, if it makes her yield, must make her hate:
Superiors? Death! and Equals? what a Curfe!
But an Inferior not dependant, worse.
Offend her, and she knows not to forgive;
Oblige her, and she'll hate you while you live:
But die, and she'll adore you-Then the Buft
And Temple rife-then fall again to duft.
Laft night, her Lord was all that's good and great;
A Knave this morning, and his Will a Cheat
Strange! by the Means defeated of the Ends,
By Spirit robb'd of Pow'r, by Warmth of Friends,
By Wealth of Follow'rs! without one diftrefs
Sick of herself, through very felfishness!
Atofa, curs'd with ev'ry granted pray'r,
Childlefs with all her Children, wants an Heir.
To Heirs unknown defcends th'unguarded ftore,
Or wanders, Heav'n-directed, to the Poor.

Pictures like thefe, dear Madam, to defign,
Ask no firm hand, and no unerring line;
Some wand'ring touches, fome reflected light,
Some flying stroke alone can hit 'em right:

For

For how should equal Colours do the knack? Chameleons who can paint in white and black?

"Yet Chloe fure was form'd without a spot."-Nature in her then err'd not, but forgot. "With ev'ry pleafing, ev'ry prudent part, "Say, what can Chloe want?"-She wants a Heart. She speaks, behaves, and acts just as fhe ought, But never, never, reach'd one gen'rous Thought. Virtue fhe finds too painful an endeavour, Content to dwell in Decencies for ever. So very reasonable, fo unmov'd,

As never yet to love, or to be lov'd.
She, while her Lover pants upon her breast,
Can mark the figures on an Indian cheft;
And when the fees her Friend in deep defpair,
Obferves how much a Chintz exceeds Mohair.
Forbid it, Heav'n! a Favour or a Debt
She e'er fhould cancel-but she may forget.
Safe is your fecret ftill in Chloe's ear;
But none of Chloe's fhall you ever hear.
Of all her Dears she never flander'd one,
But cares not if a thousand are undone.
Would Chloe know if you're alive or dead?
She bid's her Footman put it in her head;
Chloe is prudent-Would you too be wife?
Then never break your heart when Chloe dies.

One certain Portrait may (I grant) be seen, Which Heav'n has varnish'd out, and made a Queen:

THE

THE SAME FOR EVER! and describ'd by all
With Truth and Goodness, as with Crown and Ball.
Poets heap Virtues, Painters Gems at will,

And fhew their zeal, and hide their want of skill. 'Tis well-but, Artifts! who can paint or write, To draw the naked is your true delight.

That Robe of Quality fo ftruts and fwells,
None fee what Parts of Nature it conceals:
Th'exacteft traits of Body, or of Mind,
We owe to models of an humble kind.
If Queensberry to ftrip there's no compelling,
'Tis from a Handmaid we muft take a Helen.
From Peer or Bishop 'tis no eafy thing

To draw the man who loves his God, or King:
Alas! I copy (or my draught would fail)
From honeft Mah'met, or plain Parfon Hale.

But grant, in Public, Men fometimes are shown, A Woman's feen in Private life alone:

Our bolder Talents in full light difplay'd;

Your Virtues open faireft in the fhade.

Bred to difguife, in Public 'tis you hide;

There, none diftinguish 'twixt your Shame or Pride, Weakness or Delicacy; all fo nice,

That each may feem a Virtue, or a Vice.

In Men we various Ruling Paffions find;

T

In Women, two almost divide the kind;
Those only fix'd, they first or last obey,
The Love of Pleasure, and the Love of Sway,

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