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Your money, Sir?" My money, Sir! what all? "Why,—if I must-(then wept) I give it Paul.” The manor, Sir?" The manor! hold," he cry'd, "Not that, I cannot part with that”—and dy’d.

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And you, brave COBHAM! to the latest breath, Shall feel your ruling passion strong in death: Such in those moments as in all the past;

"Oh, save my country, Heav'n !" shall be your last.

VER. 261. and dy'd.] Sir William Bateman used those very words on his death-bed, but Euclio is supposed to have been designed for Sir Charles Duncombe of Helmsley,




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 beautifully cry,
In Magdalen's loose hair and lifted eye,
Or drest in smiles of sweet Cecilia shine,

With simp❜ring angels, palms, and harps divine;
Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it,

If folly grow romantic, I must paint it.

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Come then, the colours and the ground prepare! Dip in the rainbow, trick her off in air;

Chuse a firm cloud, before it fall, and in it

Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of this minute.
Rufa, whose eye quick-glancing o'er the park,
Attracts each light gay meteor of a spark,
Agrees as ill with Rufa studying Locke,
As Sappho's di'monds with her dirty smock;
Or Sappho at her toilet's greasy task,
With Sappho fragrant at an ev'ning 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 Simplicius 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.

Papillia, wedded to her am'rous 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;


VER. 24. As Sappho's diʼmonds, &c.] It appears very clear that by Sappho, throughout, Lady Montagu must have been meant.

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 charm'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 pray'r,
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 born?
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;



very heathen in the carnal part,

Yet still a sad, good Christian at her heart.


VER. 68. Yet still a sad,] Thought to be designed for the then

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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 fault, 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?
Cæsar and Tall-boy, Charles and Charlemaʼne.
As Helluo, late dictator of the feast,
The nose of Hautgout and the tip of Taste,
Critiqu'd your wine, and analyz'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 wishes is her way;
Nor asks of God, but of her stars, to give
The mighty blessing, "While we live, to live." go

VER. 70. Proud as a peeress,] Designed for the Duchess of Marlborough, who so much admired Congreve; and after his death caused a figure of wax-work to be made of him, and placed frequently at her table.

VER. 77. What has not fir'd, &c.] In the MS.

In whose mad brain the mixt ideas roll
Of Tall-boy's breeches, and of Cæsar's soul.

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