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MORAL ESSAY S.

EPISTLE II.

TO

A LADY,

N

Of the CHARACTERS of WOMEN.

OTHING fo true as what you once let fall,

"Moft women have no characters at all.” Matter too foft a lafting 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 countefs, here, in ermin'd pride,
Is there, Paftora by a fountain fide.
Here Fannia, leering on her own good man,
And there, a naked Leda with a fwan.
Let then the fair one beautifully cry,
In Magdalene's loofe hair and lifted eye,
Or dreft in smiles of sweet Cecilia fhine,

With fimp'ring angels, palms, and harps divine;
Whether the charmer finner it, or faint it,
If folly grow romantic, I muft paint it.

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Come then, the colours and the ground prepare!

Dip in the rainbow, trick her off in air;

Chufe

Chufe a firm cloud, before it fall, and in it
Catch, ere the change, the Cynthia of this minute.
Rufa, whofe eye quick glancing o'er the Park,
Attracts each light gay meteor of a spark,
Agrees as ill with Rufa ftudying Locke,
As Sappho's di'monds with her dirty fmock;
Or Sappho at her toilet's greazy task,
With Sappho fragrant at an ev'ning mask :
So morning infects that in muck begun,

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Shine, buzz, and fly-blow in the setting-fun.
How foft is Silia! fearful to offend;

The frail one's advocate, the weak one's friend.
To her, Califta prov'd her condu&t nice;

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And good Simplicius afks of her advice.

Sudden, fhe ftorms! fhe raves! You tip the wink,
But fpare your cenfure: Silia does not drink.

All eyes may fee from what the change arofe,

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All eyes may fee-a pimple on her nofe.

Papillia, wedded to her am'rous spark,

Sighs for the fhades-" 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, fhow;

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'Tis to their changes half their charms we owe; Fine by defect, and delicately weak,

Their happy fpots the nice admirer take.
'Twas thus Calypfo once each heart alarm'd,
Aw'd without virtue, without beauty charm'd;
Her tongue bewitch'd as oddly as her eyes,
Lefs wit than mimic, more a wit than wife;
Strange graces ftill, and ftranger flights fhe had,
Was just not ugly, and was juft not mad;
Yet ne'er fo fure our paffion to create,
As when the touch'd the brink of all we hate.
Narciffa's nature, tolerably mild,

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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 tradefman once to make him ftare;

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Give

Giye alms at Eafter, in a chriftian 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 borne ?
Why pique all mortals, yet affect a name?
A fool to pleasure, yet a flave 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 paffion burns;
And atheism and religion take their turns,

A very Heathen in the carnal part,

Yet ftill a fad, good Chriftian at her heart.

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See fin in ftate, majeftically drunk; Proud as a peerefs, prouder as a punk; Chafte to her husband, frank to all befide, A teeming mistress, but a barren bride.

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What then? let blood and body bear the fault,

Her head's untouch'd, that noble feat of thought:

Such this day's doctrine-in another fit

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She fins with poets thro' pure love of wit.
What has not fir'd her bofom or her brain?
Cæfar and Tall-boy, Charles and Charlema'ne.
As Helluo, late dictator of the feast,
The nose of haut-gout, 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 Philomede, lect'ring all mankind
On the foft paffion, and the tafte refin'd,
Th' addrefs, the delicacy-ftoops at once,
And makes her hearty meal upon a dunce.

Flavia's a wit, has too much fense to pray;
To toaft our wants and wifhes, is her way;
Nor afks of God, but of her stars, to give
The mighty bleffing, "while we live, to live."
Then all for death, that opiate of the foul !
Lucretia's dagger, Rofamonda's bowl.
Say, what can cause such impotence of mind?
A fpark too fickle, or a spouse too kind.

VOL. I.

Sf

80

85

90

Wife

Wife wretch with pleasures too refin'd to please;
With too much fpirit to be e'er at eafe;

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With too much quicknefs 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 afs fo meek, no afs fo obftinate,

Or her, that owns her faults, but never mends,
Becaufe fhe's honeft, and the best of friends.
Or her, whofe life the church and fcandal fhare,
For ever in a paffion, or a pray'r.

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Or her, who laughs at hell, but (like her Grace)
Cries, "Ah! how charming, if there's no fuch place!"
Or who in fweet viciffitude appears

Of mirth and opium, ratafie and tears,

The daily anodyne, and nightly draught,

To kill thofe 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 Atoffa'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 expofing knaves, and painting fools,
Yet is, whate'er fhe hates and ridicules.
No thought advances, but her eddy brain
Whisks it about, and down it goes again.
Full fixty years the world has been her trade,
The wifeft fool much time has ever made.

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From loveless youth to unrefpected age,

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No paffion gratify'd, except her rage,

So much the fury ftill out-ran the wit,

The pleafure mifs'd her, and the fcandal hit.

Who breaks with her, provokes revenge from hell,

But he's a bolder man who dares be well.

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Her ev'ry turn with violence purfu’d,

Nor more a ftorm her hate than gratitude:

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To that each paffion turns, or foon or late

Love, if it makes her yield, muft make her hate:

Superiors? death! and equals? what a curfe!

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But an inferior not dependant? worfe

Offend her, and fhe knows not to forgive;

Oblige her, and fhe'll hate you while you live:
But die, and fhe'll adore you--Then the bust
And temple rife-then fall again to duft.

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Laft 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 follow'rs! without one diftrefs
Sick of herself thro' very felfifhnefs!
Atoffa, curs'd with ev'ry'granted pray'r,
Childlefs with all her children, wants an heir.
To heirs unknown defcends th' unguarded ftore,
Or wanders, heav'n-directed, to the poor.

Pictures like thefe, dear madam, to defign,
Afk's no firm hand, and no unerring line';
Some wand'ring touches, fome reflected light,
Some flying ftroke alone can hit 'em right :
For how fhould equal colours do the knack?
Chameleons who can paint in white and black?

Yet Chloe fure was 'form'd without a fpot."-
Nature in her then err'd not, but forgot,
"With ev'ry' pleafing, ev'ry prudent part,
"Say, what can Chloe' want "She wants a heart.
She speaks, behaves, and acts juft as the ought,
But never, never, reach'd one gen'rous thought.
Virtue fhe finds too painful an endeavour,
Content to dwell in decències for ever.
So very reasonable, fo unmov'd,
As never yet to love, or to be lov'da
She, while her lover pants upon her breast,
Can mark the figures on an Indian cheft;
And when she fees her friend in deep despair,
Obferves how much a chintz exceeds inohair.

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161.

165

1704

Forbid

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