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Both wits! tho' 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 poesy and Bunyan's prose.
The learned war both wage with equal force,
And the fifth morn concluded the divorce.
Phoebe, tho' 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!"
Tho' well she knows t' will languish into sorrow:
But she dares never boast the present hour;
So gross that cheat, it is beyond her pow'r;
For such is 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 out 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;

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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, barb'rous man, (she cries,) how could you---
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

[sleep?"

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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;
But not of that unfashionable set

Is Phyllis, Phyllis and her Damon met.
Eternal love exactly hits her taste;
Phyllis demands eternal love at least.
Embracing Phyllis with soft-smiling eyes,
Eternal love I vow, the swain replies;

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But say, my all, my mistress, and my friend!
What day next week th' eternity shall end?

Some nymphs prefer astronomy to love,
Elope from mortal man, and range above.
The fair philosopher to Rowley flies,
Where, in a box, the whole creation lies:
She sees the planets in their turns advance,
And scorns, Poitier ! thy sublunary dance:
Of Desagulier she bespeaks fresh air,
And Whiston has engagements with the fair.
What vain experiments Sophronia tries!
'Tis not in air-pumps the gay col❜nel dies.
But though to-day this rage of science reigns,
(O fickle Sex!) soon end her learned pains.
Lo! pug from Jupiter her heart has got,
Turns out the stars, and Newton is a sot.
Το 111110 turn; she never took the height
Of Saturn, yet is ever in the right:

She strikes each point with native force of mind,
While puzzled Learning blunders far behind.
Graceful to sight, and elegant to thought,
The great are vanquish'd, and the wise are taught.
Her breeding finish'd, and her temper sweet,
When serious easy, and when gay discreet;
In glitt'ring scenes, o'er her own heart sincere,
In crowds collected, and in courts severe;
Sincere and warm, with zeal well understood,
She takes a nobler pride in doing good;

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Yet not superior to her sex's cares,

The mode she fixes by the gown she wears:
Of silks and china she's the last appeal;

In these great points she leads the commonweal;
And if disputes of empire rise between
Mechlin the queen of lace, and Colberteen,
'Tis doubt! 'tis darkness! till suspended Fate
Assumes her nod, to close the grand debate.
When such her mind, why will the fair express
Their emulation only in her dress?

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But, oh the nymph that mounts above the skies, And, gratis, clears religious mysteries,

Resolv'd the church's welfare to ensure,
And make her family a sinecure;

The theme divine at cards she'll not forget,
But takes in texts of Scripture at Piquet;
In those licentious meetings acts the prude,
And thanks her Maker that her cards are good.
What angels would these be, who thus excel
In theologics, could they sew as well!
Yet why should not the fair her text pursue?
Can she more decently the doctor woo?
'Tis hard, too, she who makes no use but chat
Of her religion, should be barr'd in that.

Isaac, a brother of the canting strain,
When he has knock'd at his own skull in vain,
To beauteous Marcia often will repair
With a dark text, to light it at the fair.

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O how his pious soul exults to find
Such love for holy men in womankind?

Charm'd with her learning, with what rapture he
Hangs on her bloom, like an industrious bee;
Hums round about her, and with all his pow'r
Extracts sweet wisdom from so fair a flow'r?
The young and gay declining, Appia flies
At nobler game, the mighty and the wise:
By Nature more an eagle than a dove,
She impiously prefers the world to love.

Can wealth give happiness? look round and see
What gay distress! what splendid misery!
Whatever Fortune lavishiy can pour,

The mind annihilates, and calls for more.
Wealth is a cheat, believe not what it says;
Like any lord it promises---and pays.

How will the miser startle to be told
Of such a wonder as insolvent gold?

What Nature wants has an intrinsic weight,
All more is but the fashion of the plate,
When for one moment charms the fickle view;
It charms us now, anon we cast anew,
To some fresh birth of fancy more inclin'd;
Then wed not acres, but a noble mind.

Mistaken lovers, who make worth their care,
And think accomplishments will win the fair;
The fair 'tis true by genius should be won,
As flow'rs untold their beauties to the sun;

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