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By Wealth of Followers ! without one distress
Sick of herself thro'


Atolla, curs'd with every granted prayer,
Childless with all her children, wants an Heir.
To heirs unknown defcends th’unguarded ftore,
Or wanders, Heaven direéied to the Poor.

Pictures like these, dear Madam, to design,
Alks no firm hand, and no unerring line;
Some wandring touches, some reflected light,
Some fying 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 ?---the 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 lor'd. She, while her Lover pants upon her breast, Can mark the figures on an Indian Cheft; And when Me fees 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

Then never

Of all her Dears she never slander'd one,
But cares not if a thousand are undone.
Would Chloe know if you're alive or dead?
She bids her Footman put it in her head.
Chloe is prudent – Would you too be wise ?

ver break your heart when Chioe 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 Bail.
Poets heap Virtues, Painters Gems at will,
And shew their zeal, and hide their want of skill.
"T'is 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 sees what parts of nature it conceals:
Th' exactest traits of Body or of Mind,
We owe to models of an bumble kind.
If QUEENSBERRY to strip there's no compelling,

Tis from a Handmaid we must take a Helen.
From Peer or Bishop 'tis no easy thing
To draw the man, who loves his God, or King :
Alas! I copy. (or my draught would fail)
From honest Mah'met, or plain Parson Hale.

But grant, in public men sometimes are shown,
A Woman's seen in private life alone:
Our bolder talents in full light display'd;
Your virtues open faireít in the shade.
Bred to disguise, in Public 'tis you hide;

none distinguish 'i wixt your Shame or Pride,

Weakness or Delicacy; all so nice,
That each may seem a Virtue, or a Vice.

In men we various Ruling Passions find;
In women, two almost divide the kind;
Those only fix'd, they first to last obey,
The love of Pleasure, and the love of sway.

That, Nature gives; and where the lesson taught Is but to please, can pleasure seem a fault? Experience this; by Man's oppression curft, They seek the second not to lose the first.

Men, fome to Bus’ness, fome to Pleasure take; But every Woman is at heart a Rake: Men fome to Quiet, fome to public strife; But every Lady would be queen for life.

Yet mark the fate of a whole sex of Queens!
Pow'r all their end, but beauty all the means;
In youth they conquer with so wild a rage,
As leaves them scarce a subject in their age;
For foreign glory, foreign joy, they roam;
No thought of peace or happiness at home.
But Wisdom's triumph is well-tim’d Retreat,
As hard a science to the Fair as Great!
Beauties, like Tyrants, old and friendless grown,
Yet hate repose, and dread to be alone,
Worn out in public, weary every eye,
Nor leave one figh behind them when they die.

Pleasures the sex, as children Birds pursue,
Still out of reach, yet never out of view;
Sure, if they catch to spoil the Toy at most,
To covet flying, and regret when lott:

At last, to follies youth could scarce defend,
It grows their age's prudence to pretend ;
Alam'd to own they gave delight before,
Reduc'd to feign it, when they give no more :
As Hags hold Sabbaths, less for joy than spight,
So these their merry, miserable night;
Still round and round the Ghosts of Beauty glide,
And haunt the places where their honour dy'd.

See how the world its Veterans rewards!
A youth of frolics, an old age of cards;
Fair to no purpose, artful to no end,
Young without Lovers, old without a Friend ;
A Fop their passion, but their prize a Sot,
Alive, ridiculous, and dead, forgot !

Ah! friend! to dazzle let the Vain design;
To raise the thought, and touch the heart, be thine !
That charm shall grow, while what fatigues the Ring,
Flaunts, and goes down an unregarded thing :
So when the fun's broad beam has tir'd the sight,
All mild ascends the moon's more fober light,
Serene in virgin modesty she shines,
And unobserv'd the glaring orb declines.

Oh! blest with Temper, whose unclouded ray
Can make to-morrow chearful as to-day :
She, who can love a sister's charms, or hear
Sighs for a daughter with unwounded ear;
She, who ne'er answers till a husband cools,
Or, if she rules him, never shews she rules ;
Charms by accepting, by submitting fways,
Yet has her humour most, when she obeys ;


Let fops or fortune fly which way they will ;
Disdains all loss of tickets, or Codille ;
Spleen, vapours, or small-pox, above them all,
And mistress of herself, tho’ China fall.

And, yet, believe me, good as well as ill,
Woman's at best a contradiction still.
Heaven, when it strives to polish all it can
Its last best work, but forms a softer Man;
Picks from each sex, to make the Fav'rite bleft,
Your love of pleasure, our desire of rest :
Blends, in exception to all gen’ral rules,
Your taste of follics, with our scorn of Fools :
Reserve with Frankness, Art with Truth ally'd,
Courage with softness, Modesty with Pride;
Fix'd Principles, 'with Fancy ever new;
Shakes all together, and produces You.
Be this a woman's fame : with this unblest,
Toasts live a scorn, and Queens may die a jest.
This Phoebus promis'd (I forget the year)
When those blue eyes first opend on the sphere;
Afcendant Phoebus watch'd that hour with care,
Averted half your parents' simple prayer;
And gave you beauty, but deny'd the pelf
That buys your fex a tyrant o'er itself.
The generous God, who wit and gold refines,
And ripenis fpirits as he ripens mines,
Kept Dross for Dutchesses, the world shall know it,
To you gave Sense, Good-humour, and a Poet,

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