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 dead And - 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."

US

Matter too soft a lasting mark to bear,
And best distinguish'd by black, brown, or fair.

How many pictures of one nymph we view,
All how unlike each other, all how true !
Arcadia's countess, here, in ermin'd pride,
Is there, Pastora by a fountain side.
Here Fannia, leering on her own good man,
And there, a naked Leda with a swan.
Let then the fair-one beautifully cry,
In Magdalene's loose hair, and lifted eye,
Or drest in smiles of sweet Cecilia shine,
With simpering angels, palms, and harps divine;
Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it,
If folly grow romantic, I must paint it.

Come then, the colours and the ground prepare ! Dip in the rainbow, trick her off in air ; Choose a firm cloud, before it fall, and in it 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, Agrees as ill with Rufa studying Locke, As Sappho's diamonds with her dirty smock; Or Sappho at her toilet's greasy task, With Sappho fragrant at an evening mask: So morning insects, that in muck begun, Shine, buzz, and fly-blow in the setting-sun.

How soft is Silia! fearful to offend; The frail-one's advocate, the weak-one's friend. To her Calista prov'd her conduct nice, 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,
All eyes may see-a pimple on her nose.

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
AU 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, Aw'd without virtue, without beauty charm’d; Her tongue bewitch'd as oddly as her eyes, Less wit than mimic, more a wit than wise ; Strange graces still, and stranger flights she had, Was just not ugly, and was just not mad; Yet ne'er so sure our passion to create, As when she touch'd the brink of all we hate.

Narcissa's nature, tolerably mild, To make a wash, would hardly stew a child ; Has ev'n been prov'd to grant a lover's prayer, And paid a tradesman once to make him stare; Gave alms at Easter, in a Christian trim, And made a widow happy, for a whim. Why then declare good-nature is her scorn, 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 conscience chills her, and now passion burns; And atheism and religion take their turns ;

A very heathen in the carnal part,
Yet still a sad good Christian at her heart.

See Sin in state, majestically drunk,
Proud as a peeress, prouder as a punk;
Chaste to her husband, frank to all beside,
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 sins with poets through pure love of wit.
What has not fir'd her bosom or her brain ?
Cæsar and Tall-boy, Charles and Charlemagne.
As Helluo, late dictator of the feast,
The nose of Haut-gout, and the tip of Taste,
Critiqu'd your wine, and analys'd your meat,
Yet on plain pudding deign'd at home to eat:
So Philomede, lecturing all mankind
On the soft passion, and the taste refin'd,
Th' address, the delicacy - stoops at once,
And makes her hearty meal upon a dunce.

Flavia's a wit, has too much sense to pray ; To toast our wants and wishes, is her way; Nor asks of God, but of her stars, to give The mighty blessing, “ while we live, to live." Then all for death, that opiate of the soul! Lucretia's dagger, Rosamonda's bowl. Say, what can cause such impotence of mind ? A spark too fickle, or a spouse too kind? Wise wretch! with pleasures too refin’d to please; With too much spirit to be e'er at ease; With too much quickness ever to be taught; With too much thinking to have common thought.