To find you news who racks her subtle head,
And vows-that her great-grandfather is dead.
A dearth of words a woman need not fear,
But 'tis a task indeed to learn-to hear:
In that the skill of conversation lies;
That shews or makes you both polite and wise.
Xantippe cries, "Let nymphs who nought can say
"Be lost in silence, and resign the day;
"And let the guilty wife her guilt confess
"By tame behaviour and a soft address."
Thro' virtue she refuses to comply
With all the dictates of humanity;
Thro' wisdom she refuses to submit
To Wisdom's rules, and raves to prove her wit;
Then, her unblemish'd honour to maintain,
Rejects her husband's kindness with disdain :
But if, by chance, an ill-adapted word
Drops from the lip of her unwary lord,
Her darling china, in a whirlwind sent,
Just intimates the lady's discontent.
Wine may indeed excite the meekest dame,
But keen Xantippe, scorning borrow'd flame,
Can vent her thunders, and her lightnings play,
O'er cooling gruel, and composing tea;
Nor rests by night, but more sincere than nice,
She shakes the curtains with her kind advice:
Doubly, like Echo, sound is her delight,
And the last word is her eternal right.
Is't not enough plagues, wars, and famines, rise
To lash our crimes, but must our wives be wise?
Famine, plague, war, and an unnumber'd throng
Of guilt-avenging ills, to man belong.
What black, what ceaseless cares besiege our state?
What strokes we feel from Fancy and from Fate?
If Fate forbears us, Fancy strikes the blow;
We make misfortune; suicides in woe.
Superfluous aid! unnecessary skill!
Is Nature backward to torment or kill?
How oft the noon, how oft the midnight bell,
(That iron tongue of death!) with solemn knell,
On Folly's errands as we vainly roam,
Knocks at our hearts, and finds our thoughts from home?
Men drop so fast, ere life's mid stage we tread,
Few know so many friends alive as dead;
Yet, as immortal, in our up-hill chase
We press coy Fortune with unslacken❜d pace;
Our ardent labours for the toys we seek,
Join night to day, and Sunday to the week:
Our very joys are anxious, and expire
Between satiety and fierce desire.
Now what reward for all this grief and toil?
But one; a female friend's endearing smile;
A tender smile, our sorrows' only balm,
And in life's tempest the sad sailor's calm.
How have I seen a gentle nymph draw nigh,
Peace in her air, persuasion in her eye;
Victorious tenderness! it all o'ercame,
Husbands look'd mild, and savages grew tame.
The sylvan race our active nymphs pursue;
Man is not all the game they have in view:
In woods and fields their glory they complete;
There Master Betty leaps a five-barr'd gate;
While fair Miss Charles to toilets is confin'd,
Nor rashly tempts the barb'rous sun and wind.
Some nymphs affect a more heroic breed,
And vault from hunters to the manag'd steed;
Command his prancings with a martial air,
And Foubert has the forming of the fair.
More than one steed must Delia's empire feel,
Who sits triumphant o'er the flying wheel,
And as she guides it thro' th' admiring throng,
With what an air she smacks the silken thong?
Graceful as John, she moderates the reins,
And whistles sweet her diuretic strains :
Sesostris-like, such charioteers as these
May drive six harness'd monarchs if they please : They drive, row, run, with love of glory smit, Leap, swim, shoot flying, and pronounce on wit.
O'er the belle-lettres lovely Daphne reigns; Again the god Apollo wears her chains: With legs toss'd high, on her sophee she sits, Vouchsafing audience to contending wits: Of each performance she's the final test; One act read o'er, she prophesies the rest; And then, pronouncing with decisive air, Fully convinces all the Town-she's fair. Had lovely Daphne Hecatessa's face, How would her elegance of taste decrease! Some ladies' judgment in their features lies, And all their genius sparkles from their eyes. But hold, she cries, Lampooner! have a care, Must I want common sense because I'm fair! O no see Stella; her eyes shine as bright As if her tongue was never in the right : And yet what real learning, judgment, fire! She seems inspir'd, and can herself inspire: How then (if malice rul'd not all the fair) Could Daphne publish, and could she forbear? We grant that beauty is no bar to sense, Nor is't a sanction for impertinence.
Sempronia lik'd her man, and well she might; The youth in person and in parts was bright; Possess'd of ev'ry virtue, grace, and art,
That claims just empire o'er the female heart:
He met her passion, all her sighs return'd,
And in full rage of youthful ardour burn'd:
Large his possessions, and beyond her own,
Their bliss the theme and envy of the Town:
The day was fix'd, when, with one acre more,
In stepp'd deform'd, debauch'd, diseas'd, Threescore.
The fatal sequel I, thro' shame, forbear.
Of pride and av'rice who can cure the fair!
Man's rich with little, were his judgment true;
Nature is frugal, and her wants are few;
Those few wants answer'd, bring sincere delights,
But fools create themselves new appetites.
Fancy and pride seek things at vast expence,
Which relish not to reason, nor to sense.
When surfeit or unthankfulness destroys,
In Nature's narrow sphere, our solid joys,
In Fancy's airy land of noise and show,
Where nought but dreams, no real pleasures, grow,
Like cats in airpumps, to subsist we strive
On joys too thin to keep the soul alive.
Lemira's sick; make haste; the doctor call:
He comes; but where's his patient? at the ball.
The doctor stares; her woman curt'sies low,
And cries, "My lady, Sir, is always so:
"Diversions put her maladies to flight;
"True, she can't stand, but she can dance all night:
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