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Full sixty years the World has been her Trade,
The wifeft Fool much Time has ever made.
From loveless youth to unrespected age,

No Passion gratify'd, except her Rage,
So much the Fury still out-ran 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.

130 Her every turn with Violence pursued, Nor 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 ? what a curse! But an Inferior not dependant? worse. Offend her, and she knows not to forgive; Oblige her, and she 'll hate you while you live : But die, and the 'll adore you-Then the Buft And Temple rise-then fall again to dust.

140 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 145 Sick of herself, through very selfishness! . Atossa, curs’d with every granted prayer, Childless with all her Children, wants an Heir.

To VARIATION. After ver. 148. in the MS. This Death decides ; nor lets the blessing fall On any one she hates, but on them all.



To Heirs unknown descends th’unguarded store,
Or wanders, Heaven-directed, to the Poor.

Pictures like these, dear Madam, to design,
Ask no firm hand, and no unerring line ;
Some wandering touches, fome 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,

165 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.

17. 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 VARIATION. Curs'd chance! this only could affiet her more, If any part should wander to the poor,



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 ?
Then never break your heart when Chloe dies. 180

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 Mew 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 :

190 Th’exactest traits of Body or of Mind, We owe to models of an humble 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

195 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.



After ver. 198. in the MS.

Fain I'd in Fulvia spy the tender Wife;
I cannot

prove it on her for my life : And, for a noble pride, I blush no less, Instead of Berenice to think on Bess.



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 fairest in the shade. Bred to disguise, in Public ’tis you hide ; There, none distinguish ’twixt your Shame or Pride, Weakness or Delicacy; all so nice,

205 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 or 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 curst,
They seek the second not to lose the first.
Men, fome to Business, fome to Pleasure take;

But every Woman is at heart a Rake :
Men, fome to Quiet, some to public Strife;
But every Lady would be Queen for Life.

Yet mark the fate of a whole Sex of Queens ! Power all their end, but Beauty all the means ;





Thus while immortal Cibber only sings (As Clarke and Hoadly preach) for queens and kings, The Nymph that ne'er read Milton's mighty line,

May, if she love, and merit verfe, have mine.
Ver. 207. in the first Edition,

In several Men we several passions find;
In Women, two almost divide the kind.


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In Youth they conquer with fo 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. 230

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 moft,
To covet flying, and regret when loft:
At last, to follies Youth could scarce defend, 235

grows their Age's prudence to pretend;
Atham'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;

240 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 Frolicks, an old Age of Cards; Fair to no purpose, artful to no end,

245 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 ! 250


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