Ladies, like variegated Tulips, fhow,
"Tis to their Changes half their charms we owe; Fine by defect, and delicately weak,
Their happy Spots the nice admirer take.
'Twas thus Calypfo once each heart alarm'd,
Aw'd without Virtue, without Beauty charm'd;
Her tongue bewitch'd as oddly as her Eyes,
Lefs Wit than Mimic, more a Wit than Wife;
Strange graces ftill, and ftranger flights fhe had,
Was juft not ugly, and was just not mad;
Yet ne'er fo fure our paffion to create,
As when the touch'd the brink of all we hate..
Narciffa's nature, tolerably mild,
To make a wash, would hardly ftew 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 born?
Why pique all mortals, yet affect a name?
A fool to Pleasure, yet a flave 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; 65
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 Peerefs, prouder as a Punk;
Chafte to her Hufband, frank to all befide,
A teeming Miftrefs, 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?
Cæfar and Tall-boy, Charles and Charlemagne.
As Helluo, late Dictator of the Feaft,
The Nofe of Haut-gout, 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 Philomedé, lecturing all mankind
On the foft Paffion, and the Tafte refin'd,
Th' Addrefs, the Delicacy-ftoops at once,
And makes her hearty meal upon a Dunce.
Flavia's a Wit, has too much fense to pray;
To toaft our wants and wishes, is her way;
Nor afks of God, but of her Stars, to give
The mighty blefling, "while we live, to live."
Then all for Death, that Opiate of the foul!
Lucretia's dagger, Rofamonda's bowl.
Say, what can caufe fuch impotence of mind?
A Spark toc fickle, or a Spoufe too kind.
Wife Wretch! with pleaiures too refin'd to please; 95 With too much Spirit to be e'er at ease;
Ver. 77. What has not fir'd, &c.] In the MS.
In whofe mad brain the mix'd ideas roll,
Of Tall-boy's breeches, and of Cæfar's foul.
With too much 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.
Turn then from Wits; and look on Simo's Mate,
No Afs fo meek, no Ass so obftinate.
Or her, that owns her Faults, but never mends,
Because the 's honest, and the best of Friends.
Or her, whofe life the Church and Scandal share, 105
For ever in a Paffion, or a Prayer.
Or her, who laughs at Hell, but (like her Grace)
Cries, "Ah! how charming, if there's no fuch place!"
Or who in sweet viciffitude appears
Of Mirth and Opium, Ratafie and Tears,
The daily Anodyne, and nightly Draught,
To kill thofe foes to Fair-ones, Time and Thought.
Woman and Fool are two hard things to hit;
For true No-meaning puzzles more than Wit.
But what are these to great Atoffa's mind?
Scarce once herself, by turns all Womankind!
Who, with herfelf, or others, from her birth
Finds all her life one warfare upon earth:
Shines, in expofing Knaves, and painting Fools,
Yet is, whate'er the hates and ridicules.
No Thought advances, but her Eddy Brain
Whisks it about, and down it goes again.
VARIAT 10 N.
After ver. 122, in the MS.
Opprefs'd with wealth and wit, abundance fad!
One makes her poor, the other makes her mad.
Full fixty years the World has been her Trade,
The wifeft Fool much Time has ever made.
From loveless youth to unrefpected age,
No Paffion gratify'd, except her Rage,
So much the Fury ftill out-ran the Wit,
The Pleafure mifs'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 every turn with Violence pursued,
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 fhe 'll hate you while you live:
But die, and fhe 'll adore you-Then the Bust
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 Power, by Warmth of Friends, ..
By Wealth of Follower without one distress
Sick of herself, through very felfishness!
Atoffa, curs'd with every granted prayer,
Childless with all her Children, wants an Heir.
After ver. 148, in the MS.
This Death decides; nor lets the bleffing fall
On any one he hates, but on them all.
Te Heirs unknown defcends th' unguarded store,
Or wanders, Heaven-directed, to the Poor.
Pictures, like thefe, dear Madam, to defign,
Afks no firm hand, and no unerring line;
Some wandering touches, fome reflected light,
Some flying stroke alone can hit them right:
For how fhould 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 every pleafing, every prudent part,
Say, what can Chloe want?"-She wants a Heart. She fpeaks, behaves, and acts juft as he ought; But never, never, reach'd one generous Thought. Virtue fhe finds too painful an endeavour,
Content to dwell in Decencies for ever.
very reasonable, so unmov'd,
As never yet to love, or to be lov'd.
She, while her Lover pants upon her breaft,
Can mark the figures on an Indian cheft;
And when the fees her Friend in deep despair,
Obferves how much a Chintz exceeds Mohair.
Forbid it, Heaven, a Favour or a Debt
She e'er should cancel-but she may forget.
your fecret ftill in Chloe's ear; But none of Chloe's fhall you ever hear.
Curs'd chance! this only could afflict her more,
If any part fhould wander to the poor.
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