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 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, Rofamonda's bowl,
Say, what can cause fuch impotence of mind?
A fpark too fickle, or a spouse too kind.
Wife wretch! with pleasure 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:
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 she'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 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 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
But die, and she'll adore you--Then the Bust
And Temple rise---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,
By Wealth of Followers! without one distress
Sick of herself thro' very selfishness!
Atoffa, curs'd with every granted prayer,
Childlefs with all her children, wants an Heir.
To heirs unknown defcends th' unguarded ftore,
Or wanders, Heaven directed to the Poor.
Pictures like thefe, dear Madam, to design,
Afks no firm hand, and no unerring line;
Some wandring 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 pleasing, every prudent part,
"Say, what can Chloe want?---fhe wants a Heart.
She fpeaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought,
But never, never, reach'd 'one generous thought.
Virtue he 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 Chest;
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 fhould cancel--but she may forget.
Safe is your fecret still in Chloe's ear;
But none of Chloe's shall 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 bids 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 heaven has varnish'd out, and made a Queen: The SAME FOR EVER! and describ'd by all
With Truth and Goodness, as with crown and Bail. 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 fees 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 strip there's no compelling,
'T's from a Handmaid we must 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 sometimes are shown,
A Woman's feen in private life alone:
Our bolder talents in full light display'd;
Your virtues open fairest in the shade.
Bred to difguife, in Public 'tis you hide;
Thele, 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;
In women, two almost divide the kind;
Thofe only fix'd, they first to last obey,
The love of Pleasure, and the love of sway.
That, Nature gives; and where the lesson taught
Is but to pleafe, can pleasure feem a fault?
Experience this; by Man's oppreffion curft,
They seek the second not to lose the first.
Men, fome to Bus'nefs, fome to Pleasure take; But every Woman is at heart a Rake: Men fome to Quiet, fome to public strife; But every Lady would be queen for life.
Yet mark the fate of a whole fex of Queens! Pow'r all their end, but beauty all the means; In youth they conquer with fo wild a rage, As leaves them fcarce a fubject in their age; For foreign glory. foreign joy, they roam; No thought of peace or happiness at home. But Wisdom's triumph is well-tim'd Retreat, As hard a science to the Fair as Great! Beauties, like Tyrants, old and friendless grown, Yet hate repofe, and dread to be alone, Worn out in public, weary every eye, Nor leave one figh behind them when they die. Pleafures the fex, as children Birds purfue, Still out of reach, yet never out of view; Sure, if they catch to spoil the Toy at moft, To covet flying, and regret when loft:
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