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Men, some to business, some to pleasure take; But every woman's in her soul a rake.

Frail, feverish sex; their fit now chills, now burns:
Atheism and superstition rule by turns ;
And a mere heathen in the carnal part,
Is still a sad good Christian at her heart.

IMPROMPTU, TO LADY WINCHELSEA.1

OCCASIONED BY FOUR SATIRICAL VERSES ON WOMEN WITS,

IN THE RAPE OF THE LOCK.

In vain you boast poetic names of

yore,

And cite those Sapphos we admire no more:
Fate doom'd the fall of every female wit;
But doom'd it then, when first Ardelia writ.
Of all examples by the world confess'd,
I knew Ardelia could not quote the best;
Who, like her mistress on Britannia's throne,
Fights and subdues in quarrels not her own.
To write their praise you but in vain essay;
E'en while you write, you take that praise away:
Light to the stars the sun does thus restore,
But shines himself till they are seen no more.

1 Authoress of a volume of poems, some of which possess very great merit.

EPIGRAM.

A BISHOP by his neighbours hated
Has cause to wish himself translated:
But why should Hough desire translation,
Lov'd and esteem'd by all the nation?
Yet, if it be the old man's case,

I'll lay my life I know the place :

'Tis where God sent some that adore him, And whither Enoch went before him.

EPIGRAM, ON THE FEUDS ABOUT HANDEL AND BONONCINI.

STRANGE! all this difference should be

"Twixt Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee!

ON MRS. TOFTS, A CELEBRATED OPERA
SINGER.

So bright is thy beauty, so charming thy song, As had drawn both the beasts and their Orpheus

along:

But such is thy avarice, and such is thy pride, That the beasts must have starv'd, and the poet

have died.

THE BALANCE OF EUROPE.

Now Europe balanc'd, neither side prevails; For nothing's left in either of the scales.

EPITAPH ON LORD CONINGSBY.

HERE lies Lord Coningsby-be civil!
The rest God knows-perhaps the Devil.

EPIGRAM.

You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come : Knock as you please, there's nobody at home.

EPIGRAM FROM THE FRENCH.

SIR, I admit your general rule,

That every poet is a fool :

But you yourself may serve to show it,
That every fool is not a poet.

EPITAPH.

WELL then, poor G▬▬ lies under ground! So there's an end of honest Jack.

So little justice here he found,

'Tis ten to one he'll ne'er come back.

EPIGRAM ON THE TOASTS OF THE KIT-CAT

CLUB, ANNO 1716.

WHENCE deathless 'Kit-cat' took its name,

Few critics can unriddle:

Some say from 'Pastrycook' it came,
And some, from 'cat' and 'fiddle.'

From no trim beaux its name it boasts,
Gray statesmen, or green wits;
But from this pellmell pack of toasts
Of old cats' and young 'kits.'

TO A LADY, WITH THE TEMPLE OF FAME.

WHAT'S fame with men, by custom of the nation, Is call'd, in women, only reputation:

About them both why keep we such a pother? Part you with one, and I'll renounce the other.

ON THE COUNTESS OF BURLINGTON
CUTTING PAPER.

PALLAS grew vapourish once and odd;
She would not do the least right thing,
Either for goddess or for god,

Nor work, nor play, nor paint, nor sing.

Jove frown'd, and "Use (he cried) those eyes
So skilful, and those hands so taper;
Do something exquisite and wise-"
She bow'd, obey'd him, and cut paper.

This vexing him who gave her birth,
Thought by all heaven a burning shame;
What does she next, but bids, on earth,
Her Burlington do just the same.

Pallas, you give yourself strange airs;
But sure you'll find it hard to spoil
The sense and taste of one that bears
The name of Saville and of Boyle.

Alas! one bad example shown,

How quickly all the sex pursue! See, madam, see the arts o'erthrown Between John Overton and you!

ON DRAWINGS OF THE STATUES OF APOLLO, VENUS, AND HERCULES,

MADE FOR POPE BY SIR GODFREY KNELLER.

WHAT god, what genius did the pencil move, When Kneller painted these?

Twas friendship, warm as Phoebus, kind as Love, And strong as Hercules.

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