aims and the fate of the fex, both as to power and
pleasure? ver. 219, 231, &c. Advice for their true
interest, 249
The picture of an esteemable wo-
man, made up of the best kind of contraricties, v.
269. &c.

NOTHING fo true as what you once let fall,

"Moft Women have no Characters at all." Matter too foft a lafting 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 Countefs, here, in ermin'à pride, Is there, Paftora by a fountain fide. 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 dreft in fmiles of fweet Cecilia fhine, With fimp'ring Angels, Palms, and Harps divine; Whether the Charmer finner it, or faint 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; Chufe a firm cloud, before it fall, and in it Catch, ere fhe change, the Cynthia of this minute. Rufa, whofe eye quick-glancing o'er the Park, Attracts each light gay meteor of a Spark, Agrees as ill with Rufa ftudying Locke, As Sappho's diamonds with her dirty fmock;

Or Sappho at her toilet's greasy task,
With Sappho fragrant at an evening Mask;
So morning infects that in muck begun,
Shine, buzz, and fly-blow in the setting-fun.
How foft 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 afks of her advice.
Sudden, she storms! fhe raves! You tip the wink,
But fpare your cenfure; Silia does not drink.
All eyes may fee from what the change arofe,
All eyes may fee-a Pimple on her nose.

Papillia, wedded to her am'rous spark,
Sighs for the fhades- -"How charming is a Park!"
A park is purchas'd, but the fair he fees

All 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 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 still, and stranger flights she had,
Was just 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 stew a child;

Has even been prov'd to grant a lover's prayer,
And paid a tradefman once to make him ftare;
Gave alms at Eafter, in a Christian 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 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;
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 ftate, majestically drunk;
Proud as a peerefs, 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 feat of thought:
Such this day's doctrine-in another fit

She fins with Poets thro' pure love of Wit.
What has not fir'd her bofom, or her brain?
Caefar and Tall-boy, Charles and Charlema'ne.
As Helluo, late Dictator of the Feast,

The Nofe of Haut-gout, and the the Tip of Taste,
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 fenfe to pray;
To toaft our wants and wishes, is her way;
Nor asks 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, Rofamonda's bowl,
Say, what can caufe fuch impotence of mind?
A fpark too fickle, or a fpoufe too kind.
Wife wretch! with pleasure too refin'd to pleafe;
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:
You purchase pain with all that joy can give,
And die of nothing but a rage to live.

Turn then from wits; and look to Simo's Mate, No afs fo meek, no afs fo obftinate.

Or her, that owns her faults, but never mends,
Because he's honeft, and the best of Friends:
Or her, whofe life the Church and Scandal share,
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 fweet viciffitude appears

Of mirth and Opium, Ratafia and Tears,
The daily Anodyne, and nightly Draught,
To kill those 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 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 she 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 loveless youth to unrespected age,
No Paffion gratify'd, except her Rage.

So much the Fury still out-ran the Wit,
The Pleasure 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.
Here every turn with violence purfu'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 curse!
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 Bust
And Temple rife---then fall again to dust.
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,