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 Pa.s.sion burns; And Atheism and Religion take their turns; A very heathen in the carnal part, Yet still a sad, good Christian at her heart.

What then? let blood and body bear the fault, Her head's untouched, that n.o.ble seat of thought: Such this day's doctrine-in another fit She sins with poets through pure love of wit.

What has not fired her bosom or her brain?

Caesar and Tall-boy, Charles and Charlemagne.

As h.e.l.luo, late dictator of the feast, The nose of Hautgout, and the tip of taste, Critic'd your wine, and a.n.a.lysed your meat, Yet on plain pudding deigned at home to eat; So Philomede, lecturing all mankind On the soft pa.s.sion, and the taste refined, The 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 G.o.d, 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 refined 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 a.s.s so meek, no a.s.s 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, For ever in a pa.s.sion, or a prayer.

Or her, who laughs at h.e.l.l, but (like her Grace) Cries, "Ah! how charming, if there's no such place!"

Or who in sweet vicissitude appears Of mirth and opium, 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, No pa.s.sion gratified except her rage.

So much the fury still outran the wit, The pleasure missed her, and the scandal hit.

Who breaks with her, provokes revenge from h.e.l.l, But he's a bolder man who dares be well.

Her every turn with violence pursued, Nor more a storm her hate than grat.i.tude: To that each pa.s.sion 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 robbed of power, by warmth of friend By wealth of followers! without one distress Sick of herself through very selfishness!

Atossa, cursed with every granted prayer, Childless with all her children, wants an heir.

To heirs unknown descends the 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 'em right: For how should equal colours do the knack?

Chameleons who can paint in white and black?

"Yet Chloe sure was formed without a spot"- Nature in her then erred 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, reached one generous thought.

Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour, Content to dwell in decencies for ever.

So very reasonable, so unmoved, As never yet to love, or to be loved.

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 slandered 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.

One certain portrait may (I grant) be seen, Which Heaven has varnished out, and made a Queen.

The same for ever! and described 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: The 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 G.o.d 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 displayed; 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, That each may seem a virtue or a vice.

In men, we various ruling pa.s.sions find; In women, two almost divide the kind: Those, only fixed 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, some to business, some to pleasure take; But every woman is at heart a rake: Men, some to quiet, some to public strife; But every lady would be queen for life.

Yet mark the fate of a whole s.e.x of queens!

Power 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-timed 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 sigh behind them when they die.

Pleasures the s.e.x, 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 lost: At last, to follies youth could scarce defend, It grows their age's prudence to pretend; Ashamed to own they gave delight before, Reduced to feign it, when they give no more: As hags hold Sabbaths, less for joy than spite, So these their merry, miserable night; Still round and round the ghosts of beauty glide, And haunt the places where their honour died.

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 pa.s.sion, 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 sun's broad beam has tired the sight, All mild ascends the moon's more sober light; Serene in virgin modesty she shines, And un.o.bserved the glaring orb declines.

Oh! blest with temper whose unclouded ray Can make to-morrow cheerful 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 shows she rules; Charms by accepting, by submitting sways, 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, though 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 s.e.x, to make the fav'rite blest, Your love of pleasure, or desire of rest: Blends, in exception to all general rules, Your taste of follies, with our scorn of fools: Reserve with frankness, art with truth allied, Courage with softness, modesty with pride; Fixed 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 promised (I forget the year) When those blue eyes first opened on the sphere; Ascendant Phoebus watched that hour with care, Averted half your parents' simple prayer, And gave you beauty, but denied the pelf That buys your s.e.x a tyrant o'er itself.

The gen'rous G.o.d, who wit and gold refines, And ripens spirits as he ripens mines, Kept dross for d.u.c.h.esses-the world shall know it- To you gave sense, good-humour, and a poet.

EPISTLE III. TO ALLEN LORD BATHURST.

ARGUMENT.

Of the use of Riches.

That it is known to few, most falling into one of the extremes, Avarice or Profusion, v.1, etc. The point discussed, whether the invention of money has been more commodious or pernicious to Mankind, v.21 to 77. That Riches, either to the Avaricious or the Prodigal, cannot afford Happiness, scarcely Necessaries, v.89-160. That Avarice is an absolute Frenzy, without an end or purpose, v.113, etc., 152. Conjectures about the motives of Avaricious men, v.121 to 153. That the conduct of men, with respect to Riches, can only be accounted for by the Order of Providence, which works the general good out of extremes, and brings all to its great End by perpetual Revolutions, v.161 to 178. How a Miser acts upon Principles which appear to him reasonable, v.179. How a Prodigal does the same, v.199. The due Medium and true use of Riches, v.219. The Man of Ross, v.250. The fate of the Profuse and the Covetous, in two examples; both miserable in Life and in Death, v.300, etc. The Story of Sir Balaam, v.339 to the end.

P. Who shall decide, when doctors disagree, And soundest casuists doubt, like you and me?

You hold the word, from Jove to Momus given, That man was made the standing jest of Heaven; And gold but sent to keep the fools in play, For some to heap, and some to throw away.

But I, who think more highly of our kind, (And surely, Heaven and I are of a mind) Opine, that Nature, as in duty bound, Deep hid the shining mischief under ground: But when by man's audacious labour won, Flamed forth this rival to its sire, the sun, Then careful Heaven supplied two sorts of men, To squander these, and those to hide again.

Like doctors thus, when much dispute has past, We find our tenets just the same at last.

Both fairly owning Riches, in effect, No grace of Heaven or token of th' elect; Given to the fool, the mad, the vain, the evil, To Ward, to Waters, Chartres, and the devil.

B. What Nature wants, commodious gold bestows, 'Tis thus we eat the bread another sows.

P. But how unequal it bestows, observe; 'Tis thus we riot, while, who sow it, starve: What Nature wants (a phrase I much distrust) Extends to luxury, extends to l.u.s.t: Useful, I grant, it serves what life requires, But, dreadful too, the dark a.s.sa.s.sin hires.

B. Trade it may help, society extend.

P. But lures the pirate, and corrupts the friend.

B. It raises armies in a nation's aid.

P. But bribes a senate, and the land's betrayed.

In vain may heroes fight, and patriots rave; If secret gold sap on from knave to knave.

Once, we confess, beneath the patriot's cloak, From the cracked bag the dropping guinea spoke, And jingling down the back-stairs, told the crew, "Old Cato is as great a rogue as you."

Blest paper-credit! last and best supply!

That lends corruption lighter wings to fly!