As Helluo, late dictator of the feast,
The nose of haut-goût, and the tip of taste,
Critiqu'd your wine, and analiz'd your meat,
Yet on plain pudding deign'd at home to eat;
So Philomedé, lect'ring 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 our 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 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 to be e'er at ease
With too much quickness ever to be taught;
With too much thinking to have common thought;
You purchase pain with all that joy can give,
And die of nothing but a rage to live.
Turn then from wits, and look on Simo's mate;
No ass so meek, no ass so obstinate;
Or her that owns her faults, but never mends,
Because she's honest and the best of friends;
Or her whose life the church and scandal share, 105 For ever in a passion or a pray'r;
Or her who laughs at hell, but (like her Grace)
Cries, "Ah how charming if there's no such place!"
Or who in sweet vicissitude appears
Of mirth and opium, ratifie and tears,
The daily anodyne and nightly draught,
To kill those foes to fair-ones, Time and Thought.
Woman and fool are too 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,
No passion gratify'd, 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 ev'ry turn with violence pursu❜d,
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 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 pow'r, by warmth of friends,
By wealth of foll'wers! without one distress,
Sick of herself thro' very selfishness !
Attossa, curs'd with ev'ry granted pray❜r,
Childless with all her children, wants an heir:
To heirs unknown descends th' unguarded store,
Or wanders, Heav'n directed, to the poor.
Pictures like these, dear Madam! to design,
Asks no firm hand and no unerring line;
Some wand'ring touches, some reflected light,
Some flying stroke, alone can hit them right:
For how should equal colours do the knack ?
Chameleons who can paint white and black?
"Yet Chloe sure was form'd without a spot."Nature in her then err'd not, but forgot.
"With ev'ry pleasing, ev'ry prudent part,
"Say, what can Chloe want?"-She wants a heart.
She speaks, behaves, and acts, just as she ought, 161
But never, never, reach'd one gen'rous 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, Heav'n! 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 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 Heav'n has varnish'd out, andmade 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 shew 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:
Th' exactest traits of body or of mind
We owe to models of an humble kind.
If Queensbury 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 fairest in the shade.
Bred to disguise, in public 'tis you
There none distinguish 'twixt 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;
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