"I've known my Lady (for she loves a tune) "For fevers take an opera in June :
"And tho', perhaps, you'll think the practice bold, “A midnight Park is sovʼreign for a cold: "With cholics breakfasts of green fruit agree, "With indigestions supper just at three." A strange alternative, replies Sir Hans, Must women have a doctor or a dance? Tho' sick to death, abroad they safely roam, But droop and die, in perfect health at home. For want-but not of health, are ladies ill, And tickets cure beyond the doctor's bill. Alas, my Heart! how! languishingly fair Yon lady lolls? with what a tender air? Pale as a young dramatic author, when O'er darling lines fell Cibber waves his pen. Is her lord angry, or has Veny * chid? Dead is her father, or the mask forbid? "Late sitting up has turn'd her roses white." Why went she not to bed?" Because 'twas night." Did she then dance, or play?" Nor this nor that.” Well, night soon steals away in pleasing chat. "No, all alone her pray'rs she rather chose, "Than be that wretch to sleep till morning rose.” Then Lady Cynthia, mistress of the shade,
Goes with the fashionable owls to bed:
This her pride covets, this her health denies ;
Her soul is silly, but her body's wise.
Others, with curious arts, dim charms revive,
And triumph in the bloom of fifty-five.
You, in the morning, a fair nymph invite,
To keep her word a brown one comes at night;
Next day she shines in glossy black, and then
Revolves into her native red again:
Like a dove's neck she shifts her transient charms.
And is her own dear rival in your arms,
But one admirer has the painted lass,
Nor finds that one but in her looking-glass:
Yet Laura's beautiful to such excess,
That all her art scarce makes her please us less.
To deck the female cheek he only knows,
Who paints less fair the lily and the rose.
How gay they smile? Such blessings Nature pours;
O'er-stock'd mankind enjoy but half her stores:
In distant wilds, by human eyes unseen,
She rears her flow'rs, and spreads her velvet green:
Pure gurgling rills the lonely desert trace,
And waste their music on the savage race.
Is Nature then a niggard of her bliss?
Repine we guiltless in a world like this?
But our lewd tastes her lawful charms refuse,
And painted Art's deprav'd allurements chuse.
Such Fulvia's passion for the Town: fresh air
(An odd effect!) gives vapours to the fair;
Green fields, and shady groves, and crystal springs,
And larks, and nightingales, are odious things;
But smoke, and dust, and noise, and crowds delight,
And to be press'd to death transports her quite :
Where silver riv'lets play thro' flow'ry meads,
And woodbines give their sweets, and limes their
shades,
Black kennels' absent odours she regrets,
And stops her nose at beds of violets.
Is stormy life preferr'd to the serene?
Or is the public to the private scene?
Retir'd, we tread a smooth and open way,
Thro' briers and brambles in the world we stray;
Stiff opposition, and perplex'd debate,
And thorny care, and rank and stinging hate,
Which choke our passage, our career control,
And wound the firmest temper of our soul.
O sacred Solitude! divine retreat!
Choice of the prudent! envy of the great!
By thy pure stream, or in thy waving shade,
We court fair Wisdom, that celestial maid;
The genuine offspring of her lov❜d embrace,
(Strangers on earth!) are Innocence and Peace:
There from the ways of men laid safe ashore,
We smile to hear the distant tempest roar:
There, bless'd with health, with bus❜ness unperplex'd,
This life we relish, and ensure the next :
There, too, the Muses sport: these numbers free,
Pierian Eastbury! I owe to thee.
There sport the Muses, but not there alone ;,
Their sacred force Amelia feels in Town.
Nought but a genius can a genius fit;
A wit herself, Amelia weds a wit:
Both wits! tho' miracles are said to cease,
Three days, three wondrous days! they liv'd in peace;
With the fourth sun a warm dispute arose
On Durfey's poesy and Bunyan's prose.
The learned war both wage with equal force,
And the fifth morn concluded the divorce.
Phœbe, tho' she possesses nothing less,
Is proud of being rich in happiness;
Laboriously pursues delusive toys,
Content with pains since they're reputed joys.
With what well-acted transport will she say,
"Well, sure we were so happy yesterday!
"And then that charming party for to morrow!"
Tho' well she knows 'twill languish into sorrow:
But she dares never boast the present hour;
So gross that cheat, it is beyond her pow'r :
For such is or our weakness or our curse,
Or rather such our crime, which still is worse,
The present moment, like a wife, we shun,
And ne'er enjoy, because it is our own.
Pleasures are few, and fewer we enjoy ;
Pleasure, like quicksilver, is bright and coy;
We starve to grasp it with our utmost skill,
Still it eludes us, and it glitters still :
If seiz'd at last, compute your mighty gains :
What is it but rank poison in your veins ?
As Flavia in her glass an angel spies,
Pride whispers in her ear pernicious lies;
Tells her, while she surveys a face so fine,
There's no satiety of charms divine.
Hence, if her lover yawns, all chang'd appears
Her temper, and she melts (sweet soul!) in tears:
She, fond and young, last week her wish enjoy'd,
In soft amusement all the night employ'd :
The morning came, when Strephon, waking, found
(Surprising sight!) his bride in sorrow drown'd.
"What miracle," says Strephon, "makes thee
weep?"
"Ah! barb'rous man, she cries, how could yousleep?"
Men love a mistress as they love a feast
How grateful one to touch, and one to taste?
Yet sure there is a certain time of day
We wish our mistress and our meat away:
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