A jointured widow's ritual state,
Two Jews disputing tête à tête,
New almanacs composed by seers,
Experiments on felous' ears,

Disdainful prudes, who ceaseless ply
The superb muscle of the eye,
A coquet's April-weather face,

A Queenborough-mayor behind his mace,
And fops in military shew,

Are sovereign for the case in view,
If Spleen fogs rise at close of day,
I clear my evening with a play,
Or to some concert take my way:
The company, the shine of lights,
The scenes of humour, music's flights,
Adjust and set the soul to rights.

Life's moving pictures, well-wrought plays,

To others' grief attention raise :
Here, while the tragic fictions glow,
We borrow joy by pitying woe;
There gaily comic scenes delight,
And hold true mirrors to our sight.
Virtue, in charming dress array'd,
Calling the passions to her aid,
When moral scenes just actions join,
Takes shape, and shows her face divine.
Music has charms, we all may find,
Ingratiate deeply with the mind.

When art does sound's high power advance,
To music's pipe the passions dance;
Motions unwill'd its powers have shown,

Tarantulated by a tune.

Many have held the soul to be

Nearly allied to harmony.

Her have I known indulging grief,
And shunning company's relief,
Unveil her face, and, looking round,
Own, by neglecting sorrow's wound,
The consanguinity of sound.

In rainy days keep double guard,
Or Spleen will surely be too hard;
Which, like those fish by sailors met,
Fly highest, while their wings are wet.
In such dull weather, so unfit

To enterprize a work of wit,
When clouds one yard of azure sky,
That's fit for simile, deny,

I dress my face with studious looks,
And shorten tedious hours with books.
But if dull fogs invade the head,
That memory minds not what is read,
I sit in window, dry as ark,

And on the drowning world remark :
Or to some coffee-house I stray
For news, the manna of a day,

And from the hipp'd discourses gather,
That politics go by the weather:
Then seek good-humour'd tavern chums,
And play at cards, but for small sums;
Or with the merry fellows quaff,
And laugh aloud with them that laugh;
Or drink a joco-serious cup

With souls who've took their freedom up,
And let my mind, beguiled by talk,

In Epicurus' garden walk,

Who thought it heaven to be serene;

Pain, hell, and purgatory, Spleen.

Sometimes I dress, with women sit,
And chat away the gloomy fit;
Quit the stiff garb of serious sense,
And wear a gay impertinence,
Nor think nor speak with any pains,
But lay on fancy's neck the reins:
Talk of unusual swell of waist
In maid of honour loosely laced,
And beauty borrowing Spanish red,
And loving pair with separate bed,
And jewels pawn'd for loss of game,
And then redeem'd by loss of fame;
Of Kitty (aunt left in the lurch

By grave pretence to go to church)
Perceived in hack with lover fine,
Like Will and Mary on the coin:
And thus in modish manner we,
In aid of sugar, sweeten tea.

Permit, ye fair, your idol form,
Which ev'n the coldest heart can warm,
May with its beauties grace my line,
While I bow down before its shrine;
And your throng'd altars with my lays
Perfume, and get by giving praise.
With speech so sweet, so sweet a mien
You excommunicate the Spleen,
Which, fiend-like, flies the magic ring
You form with sound, when pleased to sing;
Whate'er you say, howe'er you move,
We look, we listen, and approve.
Your touch, which gives to feeling bliss,
Our nerves officious throng to kiss ;
By Celia's pat, on their report,

The grave-air'd soul, inclined to sport,

Renounces wisdom's sullen pomp,
And loves the floral game, to romp.
But who can view the pointed rays,
That from black eyes scintillant blaze?
Love on his throne of glory seems
Encompass'd with satellite beams :
But when blue eyes, more softly bright,
Diffuse benignly humid light,

We gaze, and see the smiling loves,
And Cytherea's gentle doves,

And, raptured, fix in such a face

Love's mercy-seat, and throne of grace.
Shine but on age, you melt its snow;
Again fires long-extinguish'd glow,
And, charm'd by witchery of eyes,
Blood, long congealed, liquefies!
True miracle, and fairly done
By heads which are adored while on.
But O, what pity 'tis to find
Such beauties both of form and mind,
By modern breeding much debased,
In half the female world at least!
Hence I with care such lotteries shun,
Where, a prize miss'd, I'm quite undone ;
And han't, by venturing on a wife,
Yet run the greatest risk in life.

Mothers, and guardian aunts, forbear
Your impious pains to form the fair,
Nor lay out so much cost and art,
But to deflower the virgin heart,
Of every folly-fostering bed
By quickening heat of custom bred.
Rather than by your culture spoil'd,
Desist, and give us nature wild,

Delighted with a hoyden-soul,
Which truth and innocence control.
Coquets, leave off affected arts,
Gay fowlers at a flock of hearts;

Woodcocks to shun your snares have skill,
You show so plain, you strive to kill.
In love the artless catch the game,
And they scarce miss who never aim.
The world's great Author did create
The sex to fit the nuptial state,
And meant a blessing in a wife
To solace the fatigues of life;
And old inspired times display,
How wives could love, and yet obey.
Then truth, and patience of control,
And housewife arts adorn'd the soul;
And charms, the gift of nature, shone
And jealousy, a thing unknown;
Veils were the only masks they wore;
Novels, (receipts to make a whore)
Nor ombre, nor quadrille they knew,
Nor Pam's puissance felt at loo.
Wise men did not, to be thought gay,
Then compliment their power away:
But lest, by frail desires misled,
The girls forbidden paths should tread,
Of ignorance raised the safe high wall;
We sink haw-haws, that show them all.
Thus we at once solicit sense,

;

And charge them not to break the fence.
Now, if untired, consider, friend,
What I avoid to gain my end.

I never am at Meeting seen,

Meeting, that region of the Spleen;