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The practis'd languifh, where well-feign'd defire Wou'd own its melting in a mutual fire;

Gay fmiles to comfort: April fhow'rs to move:

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And all the nature, all the art of love.

Gold-fcepter'd Juno next exalts the Fair; Her touch endows her with imperious air, Self-valuing fancy, highly-crefted pride, Strong fov'reign will, and fome defire to chide: For which, an eloquence, that aims to vex, With native tropes of anger, arms the fex. Minerva, fkilful Goddess, train'd the maid To twirl the spindle by the twisting thread, To fix the loom, inftruct the reeds to part, Cross the long weft, and close the web with art, An useful gift; but what profuse expence,

What world of fafhions, took its rife from hence ! Young Hermes next, a close contriving God, Her brows encircled with his ferpent rod :

Then plots and fair excufes fill'd her brain,

The views of breaking am'rous vows for gain.

The

A finer flax than what they wrought before, Thro' time's deep cave, the Sifter Fates explore, Then fix the loom, their fingers nimbly weave, And thus their toil prophetic fongs deceive..

Flow from the rock, my flax! and fwiftly flow,
Pursue thy thread; the spindle runs below.
A creature fond and changing, fair and vain,
The creature woman, rifes now to reign.
New beauty blooms, a Beauty form'd to fly;
New love begins, a love produc'd to die;
New parts diftrefs the troubled fcenes of life,
The fondling mistress, and the ruling wife.
Men, born to labour, all with pains provide;
Women have time, to facrifice to pride:

They want the care of man, their want they know,
And dress to please with heart-alluring show,
The show prevailing, for the fway contend,

And make a fervant where they meet a friend.
Thus in a thousand wax-erected forts

A loitering race the painful bee fupports,

From

From fun to fun, from bank to bank he flies,

With honey loads his bag, with wax his thighs;
Fly where he will, at home the race remain,
Prune the filk drefs, and murm'ring eat the gain.
Yet here and there we grant a gentle bride,
Whose temper betters by the father's fide;
Unlike the reft that double human care,

Fond to relieve, or refolute to share :
Happy the man whom thus his ftars advance !
The curfe is gen'ral, but the bleffing chance.

Thus fung the Sifters, while the Gods admire
Their beauteous creature, made for man in ire ;
The young Pandora fhe, whom all contend
To make too perfect not to gain her end :
Then bid the winds that fly to breathe the fpring,
Return to bear her on a gentle wing;

With wafting airs the winds obfequious blow,

And land the fhining vengeance fafe below.
A golden coffer in her hand fhe bore,

The prefent treach'rous, but the bearer more,

'Twas

'Twas fraught with pangs; for Jove ordain'd above, That gold fhould aid, and pangs attend on love.

Her gay descent the man perceiv'd afar, Wond'ring he run to catch the falling star; But fo furpriz'd, as none but he can tell, Who lov'd fo quickly, and who lov'd fo well. O'er all his veins the wand'ring paffion burns, He calls her Nymph, and ev'ry Nymph by turns. Her form to lovely Venus he prefers,

Or fwears that Venus' must be fuch as hers,

She, proud to rule, yet strangely fram'd to tease, Neglects his offers while her airs fhe plays, Shoots fcornful glances from the bended frown, In brifk diforder trips it up and down,

Then hums a careless tune to lay the ftorm, And fits, and blufhes, fmiles, and yields, in form. “Now take what Jove defign'd, she foftly cry'd, "This box thy portion, and myself thy bride :" Fir'd with the prospect of the double charms, He snatch'd the box, and bride, with eager arms.

Un

Unhappy man! to whom fo bright fhe fhone, The fatal gift, her tempting felf, unknown! The winds were filent, all the waves afleep, And heav'n was trac'd upon the flatt'ring deep; But whilft he looks unmindful of a storm, And thinks the water wears a ftable form, What dreadful din around his ears fhall rife! What frowns confuse his picture of the skies!

At first the creature man was fram'd alone,
Lord of himself, and all the world his own.
For him the Nymphs in green forfook the woods,
For him the Nymphs in blue forfook the floods,
In vain the Satyrs rage, the Tritons rave,
They bore him heroes in the fecret cave.
No care deftroy'd, no fick diforder prey'd,

No bending age his fprightly form decay'd,
No wars were known, no females heard to rage,
And Poets tell us, 'twas a golden age.

When woman came, thofe ills the box confin'd Burst furious out, and poison'd all the wind,

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