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Something he chanced to drop in a short advertisement prefixed to it on its first publication, may, perhaps, account for the small attention given to it. He said that no one character in it was drawn from, the life. The public believed him on his word, and experienced little curiosity about a satire, in which" there was nothing personal.

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 beantifully cry,
In Magdalen's loose hair and lifted eye!
Or drest in smiles of sweet Cecilia shine,
With simpering angels, palms, and harps divine;
Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it,
If folly grows 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 clond, before it fall, and in it
Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of this minute.

Rufa, whose eye, quick glancing o'er tike park.
Attracts each light gay meteor of a spark,
Agrees as ill with Rufa stndying Locke,
As Sappho's diamonds with her dirty smock;
Or Sappho at her toilet'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 Simplicins 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.

Papilia, 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 chann'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 passion to create,
As when she touch'd the brink of all we hate.

Narcissa's nature, tolerably 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;
Gave 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 borne?
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 fanlt,

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?

Caesar and Tallboy, Charles and Charlemagne.

As Hellno, late dictator of the feast,

The nose of hant-gout, and the tip of taste,

Critiqn'd your wine, and analyz'd your meat.

Yet on plain pndding 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, Rosamonda's bowl. Say, what can canse 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 to be e'er at ease; With too rouch quickness ever to be tanght; With too much thinking to have common thought: You purchase pain with all that joy can give, And die of nothing hut a rage to live.

Turn then from wits, and look on Simo's mate; Vo ass so meek, no ass so obstinate: Or her that owns her fanlts but never mends, Becanse she's honest, and the best of friends: Or her whose life the church and scandal share: For ever in a passion or a prayer: Or her who langhs at hell, but (like her grace) Cries, * Ah! how charming if there's no such place I, Or who in sweet vicissitndes appears Of mirth and opinm, ratafie and tears,

The daily anodyne, and nightly draught,
To kill those foes to fair-ones, time and thought.
Woman and fool are two hard things to hit;
For true no-meaning puzzles more than wit.

But what are these to great Atossa's mind?
Scarce once herself, by turns all womankind!
Who, with herself, or others, from her birth
Finds all her life one warfare upon earth:
Shines in exposing knaves and painting fools.
Yet is whate'er she hates and ridicules.
No thought advances, but her eddy brain
Whisks it about, and down it goes again.
Full sixty years the world has been her trade.
The wisest fool much time has ever made.
From loveless youth to unrespected age:
14o passion gratified except her rage:
So much the fury still outran the wit,
The pleasure miss'd her, and the scandal hit.
Who breaks with her, provokes revenge from hell,
But he's a bolder man who dares be well.
Her every turn with violence pursn'd,
Wot more a storm her hate than gratitude:
To that each passion turns, or soon or late;
Love, if it makes her yield, must make her hate:
Superiors? death! and equals i what a curse!
But an inferior not dependent! worse.
Offend her, and she knows not to forgive;
Oblige her, and she'll hate you while you live:
But die, and she'll adore you—Then the bust
And temple rise—then fall again to dust.
Last night, her lord was all that's good and great;
A knave this morning, and his will a cheat.
Strange! by the means defeated of the ends.
By spirit robb'd of power, by warmth of friends.
By wealth of followers! without one distress
Sick of herself, through very selfishness!
Atossa, curs'd with every granted prayer,
Childless with all her children, wants an heir.
To heirs unknown descends th' unguarded store.
Or wanders. Heaven-directed, to the poor.

Pictures, like these, dear madam, to design,
Asks no firm hand, and no unerring line;
Some wandering touches, some reflected light,
Some flying stroke alone can hit them right:
For how should equal colours do the knack?
Chameleons who can paint in white and black?

• Yet Chloe sure was form'd without a spot/—
Nature in her then err'd not, but forgot.
'With every pleasing, every prudent part,
Say, what can Chloe want?'—She wants a heart.
She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought;
But never, never reach'd one generous thought.
Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour,
Content to dwell in decencies for ever.
So very reasonable, so unmov'd,
As never yet to love, or to be lov'd.
She, while her lover pants upon her breast,
Can mark the figures on an Indian chest;
And when she sees her friend in deep despair,
Observes how much a chintz exceeds mohair.
Forbid it Heaven, a favour or a debt
She e'er should cancel—but she may forget.
Safe is your secret still in Chloe's ear;
But none of Chloe's shall you ever hear.
Of all her dears she never slander'd one,
But cares not if a thousand are undone.
Would Chloe know if yon're alive or dead?
She bids her footman put it in her head.
Chloe is prudent—Would you too be wise?
Then never break your heart when Chloe dies.

One certain portrait may (I grant) be seen, Which Heaven has varnish'd out, and made a queen The same for ever! and describ'd by all With truth and goodness, as with crown and ball. Poets heap virtues, painters gems at will, And show their zeal, and hide their want of skill. "Tis well—but, artists! who can paint or write, To draw the naked is your true delight. That robe of quality so struts and swells. None see what parts of nature it conceals:

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