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 ftill 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.
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 curse!
But an Inferior not dependant? worse.
Offend her, and fhe 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 duft.
Last 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, through very selfishness!
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 the hates, but on them all.
To Heirs unknown defcends th' unguarded store,
Or wanders, Heaven-directed, to the Poor.
Pictures like thefe, dear Madam, to design,
Afk no firm hand, and no unerring line;
Some wandering touches, fome reflected light,
Some flying ftroke 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 fpot."-
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 speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought;
But never, never, reach'd one generous Thought.
Virtue fhe 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 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 fhould cancel-but he may forget.
Safe is 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 should wander to the poor,
Of all her Dears fhe never flander'd one,
But cares not if a thoufand 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 fame for ever! and defcrib'd by all
With Truth and Goodness, as with Crown and Ball.
Poets heap Virtues, Painters Gems at will,
And fhew their zeal, and hide their want of skill.
'Tis well-but, Artists! who can paint, or write,
To draw the naked is your true delight.
That Robe of Quality so struts and swells,
None fee 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 ftrip there's no compelling,
'Tis from a Handmaid we must take a Helen.
From Peer or Bishop 'tis no easy 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.
After ver. 198. in the MS.
Fain I'd in Fulvia spy the tender Wife;
I cannot prove it on her for life: my
And, for a noble pride, I blush no lefs,
Inftead of Berenice to think on Befs.
But grant, in Public Men fometimes are shown,
A woman's feen in Private life alone;
Our bolder Talents in full light display'd;
Your Virtues open fairest in the fhade.
Bred to disguise, in Public 'tis you hide;
There, 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 firft or laft obey,
The Love of Pleasure, and the Love of Sway.
That, Nature gives; and where the leffon taught
Is but to please, can Pleasure seem a fault?
Experience, this; by Man's oppreffion curft,
They seek the second not to lose the first.
Men, fome to Bufinefs, 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 Sex of Queens!
Power all their end, but Beauty all the means:
Thus while immortal Cibber only fings
(As Clarke and Hoadly preach) for queens and kings, The Nymph that ne'er read Milton's mighty line, May, if the love, and merit verfe, have mine.
207. in the first Edition,
In feveral Men we feveral paffions find ;
In Women, two almoft divide the kind,
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 fcience 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.
Pleasures the fex, as children Birds, pursue,
Still out of reach, yet never out of view;
Sure, if they catch, to spoil the Toy at most,
To covet flying, and regret when loft:
At last, to follies Youth could scarce defend,
It grows their Age's prudence to pretend;
Asham'd to own they gave delight before,
Reduc'd to feign it, when they give no more:
As Hags hold Sabbaths, lefs for joy than spight,
So these their merry, miferable Night;
Still round and round the Ghosts of Beauty glide,
And haunt the places where their honour dy'd.
See how the World its Veterans rewards!
A Youth of Frolicks, an old Age of Cards;
Fair to no purpose, artful to no end,
Young without Lovers, old without a Friend;
A Fop their Paffion, but their Prize a Sot,
ridiculous, and dead, forgot!
nd! to dazzle let the Vain defign;
thought, and touch the Heart be thine! 2 50
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