A fool, with more of wit than half mankind,
Too rash for thought, for action too refin'd;
A tyrant to the wife his heart approves:
A rebel to the very king he loves;
He dies, sad outcast of both church and state,
And harder still! flagitious, yet not great.
Ask you why Wharton broke through every rule?
'Twas all for fear the knaves should call him fool.
Nature well known, no prodigies remain,
Comets are regular, and Wharton plain.
Yet in this search the wisest may mistake,
If second qualities for first they take.
When Catiline by rapine swell'd his store,
When Cæsar made a noble dame a whore;
In this the lust, in that the avarice,
Were means, not ends; ambition was the vice.
That very Cæsar, born in Scipio's days,
Had aim'd like him, by chastity, at praise,
Lucullus, when frugality could charm,
Had roasted turnips in the Sabine farm.
In vain th' observer eyes the builder's toil;
But quite mistakes the scaffold for the pile.
In this one passion man can strength enjoy,
As fits give vigour just when they destroy.
Time, that on all things lays his lenient hand,
Yet tames not this; it sticks to our last sand.
Consistent in our follies and our sins,
Here honest nature ends as she begins.
Old Politicians chew on wisdom past,
And totter on in business to the last;
As weak as earnest, and as gravely out.
As sober Lanesb'rough dancing in the gout.
Behold a reverend sire, whom want of grace
Has made the father of a nameless race,
Shov'd from the wall perhaps, or rudely press'd,
By his own son that passes by unbless'd
Still to his wench he crawls on knocking knees
And envies every sparrow that he sees.
A salmon's belly, Helluo, was thy fate; The doctor call'd, declares all help too late: "Mercy!" cries Helluo, "mercy on my soul! "Is there no hope ?---Alas!--then bring the jowl." The frugal Crone, whom praying priests attend, Still strives to save the hallow'd taper's end,
Collects her breath, as ebbing life retires,
For one puff more, and in that puff expires.
"Odious! in woollen! 'twould a saint provoke
(Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke!)
No, let a charming chintz and Brussels lace
Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face:
One would not, sure, be frightful when one's dead---
And---Betty---give this cheek a little red."
The courtier smooth, who forty years had shin'd An humble servant to all human kind,
Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue could stir,
"If---where I'm going---I could serve you sir ?" "I give and I devise (old Euclio said,
And sigh'd) my lands and tenements to Ned." "Your money, Sir ?"--"My money, Sir! what all? Why---if I must---(then weep) I give it Paul!" "The manor, Sir?"---"The manor! hold he cried; "Not that---I cannot part with that "---and died. And you, brave Cobham! to the latest breath Shall feel your ruling passion strong in death; Such in those moments as in the past,
"O! save my country, Heav'n !" shall be your last.
That the particular characters of women are not so strongly marked as those of men, seldom so fixed, and still more inconsistant with themselves. In stances of contrarieties, given even from such characters as are most strongly marked, and seemingly, therefore, most consistent; as,-1. In the affected.--2. In the soft-natured.---3. In the cunning and artful.---4. In the whimsical.---5. In the lewd and vicious.---6. In the witty and refined.---7. In the stupid and simple. The former part having shewn that the particular characters of women are more various than those of men, it is nevertheless observed, that the general characteristic of the sex,' as to the ruling passion, is more uniform. This is occasioned partly by their nature, partly by their education, and in some degree by necessity. What are the aims and the fate of this sex :---1. As to power.---2. As to pleasure. Advice for their true interest. The picture of an estimable woman with the best kind of contrarieties.
NOTHING SO true as what you once let fall,
"Most women have no characters at all:"
Matter too soft a lasting mark to bear,
And best distinguish'd by black, brown, or fair.
How many pictures of one nymph we view,
All how unlike each other, all how true!
Arcadia's Countess here, in ermin'd pride,
Is there Pastora by a fountain side:
Here Fannia, leering on her own good man,
And there, a naked Leda with a swan.
Let then the fair-one beautifully cry,
In Magdalene's loose hair and lifted eye,
Or dress'd in smiles of sweet Cecilia shine,
With simpering angels, psalms, and harps divine,
Whether the charmer sinner it or saint it,
If folly grow romantic I must paint it.
Come then, the colours and the ground prepare!
Dip in the rainbow, trick her off in air;
Choose a firm cloud before it fall, and in it
Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of this minute.
Rufa, whose eye quick glancing o'er the Park,
Attracts each light gay meteor of a spark,
Agrees as ill with Rufa studying Locke,
As Sappho's di'monds with her dirty smock;
Or Sappho at her toilette's greasy task,
With Sappho fragrant at an evening mask :
So morning insects, that in muck begun,
Shine, buzz, and fly-blow in the setting-sun.
How soft is Silia! fearful to offend;
The frail one's advocate, the weak one's friend:
To her Calista prov'd her conduct nice,
And good Simplicious asks of her advice.
Sudden she storms! she raves! you tip the wink ;
But spare your censure; Silia does not drink.
All eyes may see from what the change arose;
All eyes may see---a pimple on her nose.
Papillia, wedded to her amorous spark,
Sighs for the shades---"How charming is a park!"
A park is purchas'd, but the fair he sees
All bath'd in tears---"Oh, odious, odious trees!"
Ladies like variegated tulips show;
'Tis to their changes, half their charms we owe:
Fine by defect, and delicately weak,
Their happy spots the nice admirer take.
'Twas thus Calypso once each heart alarm'd;
Aw'd without virtue, without beauty charin'd';
Her tongue bewitch'd as oddly as her eyes;
Less wit than mimic, more a wit than wise:
Strange graces still, and stranger flights, she had:
Was just not ugly, and was just not mad;
Yet ne'er so sure our passions to create
As when she touch'd the brink of all we hate.
Narcissa's nature, tolerable mild,
To make a wash would hardly stew a child;
Has ev'n been prov'd to grant a lover's prayer,
And paid a tradesman once to make him stare;
Gives alms at Easter in a Christian trim,
And made a widow happy for a whim.
Why then declare good-nature is her scorn,
When 'tis by that alone she can be born?
Why pique all mortals, yet affect a name,
A fool to pleasure yet a slave to fame?
Now deep in Taylor and the book of Martyrs,
Now drinking citron with his Grace and Chartres;
Now conscience chills her, and now passion burns,
And atheism and religion take their turns;
A very Heathen in the carnal part,
Yet still a sad good Christian at her heart.
See Sin in state, majestically drunk,
Proud as a peeress, prouder as a punk;
Chaste to her husband, frank to all beside,
A teeming mistress, but a barren bride.
What then? let blood and body bear the fault,
Her head's untouch'd, that noble seat of thought.
Such this day's doctrine---in another fit
She sins with poets through pure love of wit.
What has not fir'd her bosom or her brain?
Cæsar and Talboy, Charles and Charlemagne.
As Helluo, late dictator of the feast,
The nose of hau -gout, and the tip of taste,
Critiqu'd your wine, and analyz'd your meat,
Yet on plain pudding deign'd at home to eat;
So Philomede, lecturing all mankind,
On the soft passion, and the taste refin'd,
Th' address, the delicacy---stoops at once,
And makes her hearty meal upon a dunce.
Flavia's a wit, has too much sense to pray :
To toast our wants and wishes is her way.
Nor asks of God, but of her stars, to give
The mighty blessing "while we live to live."
Then all for death, that opiate of the soul!
Lucretia's dagger, Rosamunda's bowl.
Say what can cause such impotence of mind?
A spark too fickle, or a spouse too kind.
Wise wretch! with pleasures too refin'd to please;
With too much spirit e'er to be at ease;
With too much quickness ever to be taught;
With too much thinking to have common thought;
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