Page images
PDF
EPUB

Graceful as John, she moderates the reins,
And whistles sweet her diuretic strains :
Sesostris-like, such charioteers as these

May drive six harness'd monarchs if they please:
They drive, row, run, with love of glory smit,
Leap, swim, shoot flying, and pronounce on wit.
O'er the belle-lettre lovely Daphne reigns;
Again the god Apollo wears her chains:
With legs toss'd high, on her sophée she sits,
Vouchsafing audience to contending wits:
Of each performance she's the final test;
One act read o'er, she prophesies the rest;
And then, pronouncing with decisive air,
Fully convinces all the town-she's fair.
Had lovely Daphne Hecatessa's face,
How would her elegance of taste decrease!
Some ladies' judgment in their features lies,
And all their genius sparkles from their eyes.
But hold, she cries, lampooner! have a care;
Must I want common sense because I'm fair?
O no: see Stella; her eyes shine as bright
As if her tongue was never in the right;
And yet what real learning, judgment, fire!
She seems inspir'd, and can herself inspire:
How then (if malice rul'd not all the fair)
Could Daphne publish, and could she forbear!
We grant that beauty is no bar to sense,
Nor is't a sanction for impertinence.

Sempronia lik'd her man, and well she might;
The youth in person and in parts was bright;
Possess'd of every virtue, grace, and art,
That claims just empire o'er the female heart:
He met her passion, all her sighs return'd,
And in full rage of youthful ardour burn'd:
Large his possessions, and beyond her own,
Their bliss the theme and envy of the Town:
The day was fix'd, when, with one acre more,
In stepp'd deform'd, debauch'd, diseas'd, Threescore.
The fatal sequel I, through shame, forbear.
Of pride and avarice who can cure the fair?

Man's rich with little, were his judgment true; Nature is frugal, and her wants are few; Those few wants answer'd bring sincere delights, But fools create themselves new appetites. Fancy and pride seek things at vast expense, Which relish not to reason, nor to sense. When surfeit or unthankfulness destroys, In Nature's narrow sphere, our solid joys, In Fancy's airy land of noise and show, Where nought but dreams, no real pleasures grow, Like cats in airpumps, to subsist we strive On joys too thin to keep the soul alive.

Lemira's sick; make haste; the doctor call: He comes: but where's his patient? at the bail. The doctor stares; her woman curt'sies low, And cries, My Lady, Sir, is always so: Diversions put her maladies to flight;

True, she can't stand, but she can dance all night:
I've known my Lady (for she loves a tune)
For fevers take an opera in June:

And though, perhaps, you'll think the practice bold,
A midnight Park is sovereign for a cold:
With cholics breakfasts of green fruit agree,
With indigestions supper just at three.'
A strange alternative, replies Sir Hans,
Must women have a doctor or a dance?
Though sick to death, abroad they safely roam,
But droop and die, in perfect health, at home.
For want-but not of health, are ladies ill,
And tickets cure beyond the doctor's pill.
Alas, my heart! how languishingly fair,
Yon lady lolls? with what a tender air?
Pale as a young dramatic author, when
O'er darling lines fell Cibber waves his pen.
Is her lord angry, or has Veny chid ?
Dead is her father, or the mask forbid?
'Late sitting up has turn'd her roses white.'
Why went she not to bed? Because 'twas night.
Did she then dance or play? Nor this nor that.'
Well, night soon steals away in pleasing chat.

No, all alone her pray'rs she rather chose,
Than be that wretch to sleep till morning rose.
Then lady Cynthia, mistress of the shade,
Goes with the fashionable owls to bed:

This her pride covets, this her health denies :
Her soul is silly, but her body's wise.

Others, with curious arts, dim charms revive,
And triumph in the bloom of fifty-five.
You, in the morning, a fair nymph invite,
To keep her word a brown one comes at night;
Next day she shines in glossy black, and then
Revolves into her native red again:

Like a dove's neck she shifts her transient charms,
And is her own dear rival in your arms.
But one admirer has the painted lass,
Nor finds that one but in her looking-glass:
Yet Laura's beautiful to such excess,

That all her art scarce makes her please us less.
To deck the female cheek he only knows,
Who paints less fair the lily and the rose.

How gay they smile? Such blessings Nature pours,
O'erstock'd mankind enjoy but half her stores :
In distant wilds, by human eyes unseen,

She rears her flowers, and spreads her velvet green:
Pure gurgling rills the lonely desert trace,
And waste their music on the savage race.
Is Nature then a niggard of her bliss?
Repine we guiltless in a world like this?
But our, lude tastes her lawful charms refuse,
And painted Art's deprav'd allurements choose.
Such Fulvia's passion for the town: fresh air
(An odd effect!) gives vapours to the fair;
Green fields, and shady groves, and crystal springs,
And larks, and nightingales, are odious things;
But smoke, and dust, and noise, and crowds delight,
And to be press'd to death transports her quite :
Where silver rivulets play through flowery meads,
And woodbines give their sweets, and limes their
shades,

Black kennels' absent odours she regrets,
And stops her nose at beds of violets.

Is stormy life preferr❜d to the serene?
Or is the public to the private scene?
Retir'd, we tread a smooth and open way,

Through briars and brambles in the world we stray;
Stiff opposition, and perplex'd debate,

And thorny care, and rank and stinging hate,
Which choke our passage, our career control,
And wound the firmest temper of our soul.
O sacred Solitude! divine retreat!
Choice of the prudent! envy of the great!
By thy pure stream, or in thy waving shade,
We court fair Wisdom, that celestial maid;
The genuine offspring of her lov'd embrace,
(Strangers on earth!) are Innocence and Peace:
There from the ways of men laid safe ashore,
We smile to hear the distant tempest roar;
There, bless'd with health, with business unperplex'd,
This life we relish, and insure the next :

There, too, the Muses sport: these numbers free,
Pierian Eastbury! I owe to thee.

There sport the Muses, but not there alone; Their sacred force Amelia feels in town.

Nought but a genius can a genius fit;

A wit herself, Amelia weds a wit:

Both wits! though miracles are said to cease, Three days, three wondrous days! they liv'd in

peace;

With the fourth sun a warm dispute arose
On Durfey's poësy and Bunyan's prose :
The learned war both wage with equal force,
And the fifth morn concluded the divorce.
Phoebe, though she possesses nothing less,
Is proud of being rich in happiness;
Laboriously pursues delusive toys,
Content with pains, since they're reputed joys.
With what well-acted transport will she say,
'Well, sure we were so happy yesterday!

And then that charming party for to-morrow!'
Though well she knows 'twill languish into sorrow:
But she dares never boast the present hour;
So gross that cheat, it is beyond her power:
For such is or our weakness or our curse,
Or rather such our crime, which still is worse,
The present moment, like a wife, we shun,
And ne'er enjoy, because it is our own."

Pleasures are few, and fewer we enjoy ;
Pleasure, like quicksilver, is bright and coy;
We strive to grasp it with our utmost skill,
Still it eludes us, and it glitters still:
If seiz'd at last, compute your mighty gains;
What is it but rank poison in your veins ?
As Flavia in her glass an angel spies,
Pride whispers in her ear pernicious lies;
Tells her, while she surveys a face so fine,
There's no satiety of charms divine:

Hence, if her lover yawns, all chang'd appears
Her temper, and she melts (sweet soul!) in tears:
She, fond and young, last week her wish enjoy'd,
In soft amusement all the night employ'd;
The morning came, when Strephon, waking, found
(Surprising sight!) his bride in sorrow drown'd:
"What miracle,' says Strephon, makes thee weep?"
Ah, barbarous man,' she cries, 'how could you-
sleep?"

Men love a mistress as they love a feast;
How grateful one to touch, and one to taste?
Yet sure there is a certain time of day

We wish our mistress and our meat away:
But soon the sated appetites return,

Again our stomachs crave, our bosoms burn:
Eternal love let man, then, never swear;

Let women never triumph nor despair;

Nor praise nor blame, too much, the warm or chill: Hunger and love are foreign to the will.

There is, indeed, a passion more refin'd,

For those few nymphs whose charms are of the mind;

« PreviousContinue »