Cruel by nature, they for kindness hate,
And scorn you for those ills themselves create.
If on your fame our sex a blot has thrown
'Twill ever stick thro' malice of your own.
Most hard! in pleasing your chief glory lies,
And yet from pleasing your chief dangers rise:
Then please the best; and know, for men of sense
Your strongest charms are native innocence.
Arts on the mind, like paint upon the face,
Fright him that's worth your love from your embrace.
In simple manners all the secret lies;
Be kind and virtuous, you'll be bless'd and wise.
Vain shew and noise intoxicate the brain,
Begin with giddiness, and end in pain.
Affect not empty fame and idle praise,
Which all those wretches I describe betrays.
Your sex's glory 'tis to shine unknown;
Of all applause be fondest of your own.
Beware the fever of the mind; that thirst
With which the age is eminently curs'd:
To drink of pleasure but inflames desire,
And abstinence alone can quench the fire;
Take pain from life, and terror from the tomb,
Give peace in hand, and promise bliss to come.
I SOUGHT a patroness, but sought in vain;
Apollo whisper'd in my ear---" Germain.”-
I know her not---" Your reason's somewhat odd;
"Who knows his patron now?" reply'd the god.
"Men write to me, and to the world unknown,
"Then steal great names to shield them from the
"Detected worth, like beauty disarray'd,
"To covert flies, of praise itself afraid.
"Should she refuse to patronize your lays,
"In vengeance write a volume in her praise:
"Nor think it hard so great a length to run;
"When such the theme, 'twill easily be done."
Ye Fair! to draw your excellence at length,
Exceeds the narrow bounds of human strength:
You here, in miniature, your picture see,
Nor hope from Zincks more justice than from me:
My portraits grace your mind, as his your side;
His portraits will inflame, mine quench, your pride:
He's dear, you frugal: chose my cheaper lay,
And be your reformation all my pay.
Lavinia is polite, but not profane,
To church as constant as to Drury-lane:
She decently, in form, pays heav'n its due,
And makes a civil visit to her pew.
Her lifted fan, to give a solemn air,
Conceals her face, which passes for a pray'r:
Curt'sies to curt'sies, then, with grace succeed;
Not one the fair omits, but at the Creed:
Or if she joins the service, 'tis to speak;
Thro' dreadful silence tie pent heart might break; 30
Untaught to bear it, women talk away
To God himself, and fondly think they pray:
But sweet their accent, and their air refin'd;
For they're before their Maker---and mankind.
When ladies once are proud of praying well,
Satan himself will toll the parish bell.
Acquainted with the world, and quite well-bred, Drasa receives her visitants in bed;
But, chaste as ice, this Vesta, to defy
The very blackest tongue of calumny,
When from the sheets her lovely form she lifts,
She begs you just would turn you while she shifts.
Those charms are greatest which decline the sight;
That makes the banquet poignant and polite.
There is no woman where there's no reserve;
And 'tis on plenty your poor lovers starve.
But with a modern fair meridian merit
Is a fierce thing they call a nymph of spirit.
Mark well the rollings of her flaming eye,
And tread on tiptoe if you dare draw nigh:
"Or if you take a lion by the beard, *
" Or dare defy the fell Hyrcanian pard,
"Or arm'd rhinoceros, or rough Russian bear,"
First make your will, and then converse with her.
This lady glories in profuse expense, ·
And thinks distraction is magnificence.
To beggar her gallant is some delight
To be more fatal still is exquisite.
Had ever nymph such reason to be glad ?
In duel fell two lovers, one run mad.
Her foes their honest execrations pour;
Her lovers only should detest her more.
Flavia is constant to her old gallant,
And gen'rously supports him in his want:
But marriage is a fetter, is a snare,
A hell no lady so polite can bear.
She's faithful, she's observant; and with pains
Her angel-brood of bastards she maintains;
Nor least advantage has the fair to plead,
But that of guilt, above the marriage-bed,
Amasia hates a prude, and scorns restraint; Whate'er she is, she'll not appear a saint: Her soul superior flies formality:
So gay her air, her conduct is so free,
Some might suspect the nymph not over good---
Nor would they be mistaken if they should,
Unmarry'd Abra puts on formal airs;
Her cushion's threadbare with her constant pray'rs:
Her only grief is that she cannot be
At once engag'd in pray'r and charity.
And this, to do her justice, must be said,
"Who would not think that Abra was a maid?"
Some ladies are too beauteous to be wed,
For where's the man that's worthy of their bed?
If no disease reduce her pride before,
Lavinia will be ravish'd at threescore;
Then she submits to venture in the dark,
And nothing now is wanting---but her spark.
Lucia thinks happiness consists in state;
She weds an idiot; but she eats in plate.
The goods of Fortune which her soul possess,
Are but the ground of unmade happiness;
The rude material; wisdom add to this,
Wisdom, the sole artificer of bliss;
She from herself, if so compell'd by need,
Of thin content can draw the subtle thread;
But (no detraction to her sacred skill)
If she can work in gold 'tis better still.
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