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Shall I, who nourish'd in my breast desire, When your cold scorn and frowns forbid the fire; -Now when a mutual flame you have reveal'd, And the dear union of our souls is seal'd, When all my joys complete in you I find, Shall I not share the sorrows of your mind? O tell me, tell me all-whence does arise

This flood of tears? whence are these frequent sighs?


Why does that lovely head, like a fair flower
Oppress'd with drops of a hard-falling shower,
Bend with its weight of grief, and seem to grow
Downward to earth, and kiss the root of woe?
Lean on my breast, and let me fold thee fast,
Lock'd in these arms, think all thy sorrows past;
Or what remain think lighter made by me;
So I should think, were I so held by thee.
Murmur thy plaints, and gently wound my ears ;
Sigh on my lip, and let me drink thy tears;
Join to my cheek thy cold and dewy face,
And let pale grief to glowing love give place.
O speak-for woe in silence most appears;
Speak, ere my fancy magnify my fears.
Is there a cause which words can not express
Can I not bear a part, nor make it less?
I know not what to think-am I in fault?
I have not, to my knowledge, err'd in thought,
Nor wander'd from my love; nor would I be
Lord of the world, to live depriv'd of thee.
You weep afresh, and at that word you start!
Am I to be depriv'd then?-must we part?
Curse on that word so ready to be spoke,
For through my lips, unmeant by me, it broke.
Oh no, we must not, will not, cannot part,
And my tongue talks, unprompted by my heart.
Yet speak, for my destruction grows apace,
And racking fears and restless doubts increase,
And fears and doubts to jealousy will turn,
The hottest Hell, in which a heart can burn.


FAIR Amoret is gone astray;

Pursue and seek her, every lover; I'll tell the signs by which you may The wandering shepherdess discover. Coquet and coy at once her air,

Both study'd, though both seem neglected; Careless she is with artful care, Affecting to seem unaffected.

With skill her eyes dart every glance,

Yet change so soon you'd ne'er suspect them; For she'd persuade they wound by chance, Though certain aim and art direct them.

She likes herself, yet others hates

For that which in herself she prizes; And, while she laughs at them, forgets She is the thing that she despises.


WHEN Lesbia first I saw so heavenly fair, With eyes so bright, and with that awful air thought my heart, which durst so high aspire, bold as his who snatch'd celestial fire.

But soon as e'er the beauteous ideot spoke,
Forth from her coral lips such folly broke,
Like balm the trickling nonsense heal'd my wound,
And what her eyes enthrall'd her tongue unbound.


DORIS, a nymph of riper age,
Has every grace and art,
A wise observer to engage,

Qr wound a heedless heart.
Of native blush, and rosy dye,

Time has her cheek bereft;
Which makes the prudent nymph supply
With paint th' injurious theft.

Her sparkling eyes she still retains,
And teeth in good repair;
And her well-furnish'd front disdaine
To grace with borrow'd hair.

Of size, she is nor short, nor tall,
And does to fat incline

No more than what the French would call
Aimable Embonpoint.

Farther her person to disclose

I leave let it suffice,

She has few faults but what she knows
And can with skill disguise.

She many lovers has refus'd,

With many more comply'd ;
Which, like her clothes, when little us'd
She always lays aside.

She's one who looks with great contempt
On each affected creature,
Whose nicety would seem exempt
From appetites of Nature.

She thinks they want or health or sense,
Who want an inclination;

And therefore never takes offence

At him who pleads his passion.

Whom she refuses she treats still

With so much sweet behaviour,
That her refusal, through her skill,
Looks almost like a favour.

Since she this softness can express
To those whom she rejects,
She must be very fond, you'll guess,
Of such whom she affects:

But here our Doris far outgoes
All that her sex have done;
She no regard for custom knows,
Which reason bids her shun.

By reason her own reason's meant,
Or, if you please, her will:
For, when this last is discontent,
The first is serv'd but ill.
Peculiar therefore is her way;
Whether by Nature taught,
I shall not undertake to say,
Or by experience bought.

But who o'er night obtain'd her grace,

She can next day disown,

And stare upon the strange man's face,
As one she ne'er had known.

So well she can the truth disguise,
Such artful wonder frame,.
The lover or distrusts his eyes,

Or thinks 'twas all a dream.

Some censure this as lewd and low,,
Who are to bounty blind;
For to forget what we bestow
Bespeaks a noble mind.

Doris our thanks nor asks, nor needs:
For all her favours done

From her love flow, as light proceeds
Spontaneous from the Sun.

On one or other still her fires

Display their genial force; And she, like Sol, alone retires, To shine elsewhere of course.



O SLEEP! thou flatterer of happy minds,
How soon a troubled breast thy falsehood finds?
Thou common friend, officious in thy aid,
Where no distress is shown, nor want betray'd:
But oh! how swift, how sure thou art to shun
The wretch by fortune or by love undone!
Where are thy gentle dews, thy softer powers,
Which us'd to wait upon my midnight hours?

Why dost thou cease thy hovering wings to spread,

With friendly shade, around my restless bed?
Can no complainings thy compassion move?,
Is thy antipathy so strong to love?

O no! thou art the prosperous lover's friend,
And dost, uncall'd, his pleasing toils attend.
With equal kindness, and with rival charms,
Thy slumbers lull bim in his fair-one's arms;
Or from her bosom he to thine retires,
Where, sooth'd with ease, the panting youth re-

Till soft repose restore his drooping sense,
And rapture is reliev'd by indolence.

But oh! what torture does the lover bear,
Forlorn by thee, and haunted by despair!
From racking thoughts by no kind slumber freed,
But painful nights his joyless days succeed.
But why, dull god, do I of thee complain?
Thou didst not cause, nor canst thou ease, my pain.
Forgive what my distracting grief has said;
I own, unjustly I thy sloth upbraid.
For off I have thy proffer'd aid repell'd,
And my reluctant eyes from rest withheld;
Implor'd the Muse to break thy gentle chains,
And sung with Philomel my nightly strains.
With her I sing, but cease not with her song,
For more enduring woes my days prolong.
The morning lark to mine accords his note,
And tunes to my distress his warbling throat:
Each setting and each rising Sun I mourn,
Wailing alike his absence and return.
And all for thee-what had I well nigh said?
Let me not name thee, thou too charming maid!

No, as the wing'd musicians of the grove,
Th' associates of my melody and love,
In moving sound alone relate their pain,
And not with voice articulate complain;
So shall my Muse my tuneful sorrows sing,
And lose in air her name from whom they spring.
O may no wakeful thoughts her mind molest,
Soft be her slumbers, and sincere her rest:
For her, O Sleep! thy balmy sweets prepare;
The peace I lose for her, to her transfer.
Hush'd as the falling dews, whose noiseless showers
Impearl the folded leaves of evening flowers,
Steal on her brow: and as those dews attend,
Till warn'd by waking Day to re-ascend,
So wait thou for her morn; then gently rise,
And to the world restore the day-break of her eyes

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I YIELD, O Kneller! to superior skill,
Thy pencil triumphs o'er the poet's quill:
If yet my vanquish'd Muse exert her lays,
It is no more to rival thee, but praise.

Oft have I try'd, with unavailing care,
To trace some image of the much-lov'd fair;
But still my numbers ineffectual prov'd,
And rather show'd how much, than whom, I lov'd ;
But thy unerring hands, with matchless art,
Have shown my eyes th' impression in my heart;
The bright idea both exists and lives,
Such vital heat thy genial pencil gives:
Whose daring point, not to the face confin'd,
Can penetrate the heart, and paint the mind.

Others some faint resemblance may express,

Which, as 'tis drawn by chance, we find by guess.
Thy pictures raise no doubts; when brought to

At once they're known, and seem to know us too.
Transcendent artist! how complete thy skill!
Thy power to act is equal to thy will.
Nature and Art in thee alike contend,
Not to oppose each other, but befriend;
For what thy fancy has with fire design'd,
Is by thy skill both temper'd and refin'd.
As in thy pictures light consents with shade,
And each to other is subservient made,
Judgment and genius so concur in thee,
And both unite in perfect harmony.

But after-days, my friend, must do thee right,
And set thy virtues in unenvy'd light.
Fame due to vast desert is kept in store,
Unpaid, till the deserver is no more.
Yet thou, in present, the best part hast gain'd,
And from the chosen few applause obtain❜d:
Ev'n he who best could judge, and best could

Has high extoll'd thee in his deathless,lays;
Ev'n Dryden has immortaliz'd thy name;
Let that alone suffice thee, think that fame.
Unfit I follow where he led the way,
And court applause by what I seem to pay.
Myself I praise, while I thy praise intend,
For 'tis some virtue, virtue to commend;
And next to deeds which our own honour raise,
Is to distinguish them who merit praise.



THOU watchful taper, by whose silent light
I lonely pass the melancholy night;
Thou faithful witness of my secret pain,
To whom alone I venture to complain;

O learn with me my hopeless love to moan;
Commiserate a life so like thy own.

Like thine, my flames to my destruction turn,
Wasting that heart by which supply'd they burn.
Like thine, my joy and suffering they display;
At once are signs of life, and symptoms of decay.
And as thy fearful flames the day decline,
And only during night presume to shine;
Their humble rays not daring to aspire
Before the Sun, the fountain of their fire:
So mine, with conscious shame, and equal awe,
To shades obscure, and solitude, withdraw;
Nor dare their light before her eyes disclose,
From whose bright beams their being first arose.






THE men are arm'd, and for the fight prepare;
And now we must instruct and arm the fair.
Both sexes, well appointed, take the field,
And mighty Love determine which shall yield.
Man were ignoble, when thus arm'd, to show
Unequal force against a naked foe:

No glory from such conquest can be gain'd,
And odds are always by the brave disdain'd.
But some exclaim-" What phrenzy rules your

Would you increase the craft of woman-kind!
Teach them new wiles and arts! As well you may
Instruct a snake to bite, or wolf to prey."
But, sure, too hard a censure they pursue,
Who charge on all the failings of a few.
Examine first impartially each fair,
Then, as she merits, or condemn, or spare.
If Menelaus, and the king of men,
With justice of their sister-wives complain;
If false Eriphyle forsook her faith,
And for reward procur'd her husband's death;
Penelope was loyal still, and chaste,
Though twenty years her lord in absence pass'd.
Reflect how Laodama's truth was try'd,
Who, though in bloom of youth, and beauty's pride,
To share her husband's fate, untimely dy'd.
Think how Alceste's piety was prov'd,
Who lost her life to save the man she lov'd.
"Receive me, Capancus," Avadne cry'd;
"Nor death itself our nuptials shall divide:
To join thy ashes, pleas'd I shall expire:"
She said, and leap'd amid the funeral fire.

Virtue herself a goddess we confess,
Both female in her name and in her dress;
No wonder, then, if, to her sex incliu'd,
She cultivates with care a female mind.
But these exalted souls exceed the reach
Of that soft art which I pretend to teach.
My tender bark requires a gentle gale,
A little wind will fill a little sail.

Of sportive Loves I sing, and show what ways
The willing nymph must use her bliss to raise,
And how to captivate the man she'd please.
Woman is soft, and of a tender heart,
Apt to receive, and to retain, Love's dart:
Man has a breast robust, and more secure,
It wounds him not so deep, nor hits so sure.
Men oft are false; and, if you search with care,
You'll find less fraud imputed to the fair.
The faithless Jason from Medea fled,
And made Creusa partner of his bed.
Bright Ariadne, on an unknown shore,
Thy absence, perjur'd Theseus, did deplore.
If, then, the wild inhabitants of air
Forbore her tender lovely limbs to tear,
It was not owing, Theseus, to thy care.
Inquire the cause, and let Demophoön tell,
Why Phyllis by a fate untimely fell.
Nine times, in vain, upon the promis'd day,
She sought th' appointed shore, and view'd the sea :
Her fall the fading trees consent to mourn,
And shed their leaves round her lamented uru.
The prince so far for piety renown'd,
To thee, Eliza, was unfaithful found;
To thee, forlorn and languishing with grief,
His sword alone he left, thy last relief.
Ye ruin'd nymphs, shall I the cause impart
Of all your woes? "Twas want of needful art.
Love of itself too quickly will expire;
But powerful Art perpetuates desire.
Women had yet their ignorance bewail'd,
Had not this art by Venus been reveal'd.

Before my sight the Cyprian goddess shone,
And thus she said-"What have poor women done?
Why is that weak, defenceless sex expos'd,
On every side, by men well arm'd, enclos'd?
Twice are the men instructed by the Muse,
Nor must she now to teach the sex refuse.
The bard, who injur'd Helen in his song,
Recanted after, and redress'd the wrong.
And you, if on my favour you depend,
The cause of women, while you live, defend."
This said, a myrtle sprig, which berries bore,
She gave me (for a myrtle wreath she wore).
The gift receiv'd, my sense enlighten'd grew,
And from her presence inspiration drew.
Attend, ye nymphs, by wedlock unconfin'd,
And hear my precepts, while she prompts my mind:
Ev'n now, in bloom of youth, and beauty's prime,
Beware of coming age, nor waste your time:
Now, while you may, and ripening years invite,
Enjoy the seasonable, sweet delight:
For rolling years, like stealing waters, glide;"
Nor hope to stop their ever-ebbing tide :
Think not hereafter will the loss repay;
For every morrow will the taste decay,
And leave less relish than the former day.
I've seen the time, when, on that wither'd thorn,
The blooming rose vied with the blushing morn.
With fragrant wreaths I thence have deck'd my


And see how leafless now, and how decay'd!

And you, who now the love-sick youth reject,
Will prove, in age, what pains attend neglect.
None, then, will press upon your midnight hours,
Nor wake, to strew your street with morning

Then nightly knockings at your door will cease,
Whose noiseless hammer, then, may rust in peace.
Alas! how soon a clear complexion fades!
How soon a wrinkled skin plump flesh invades !
And what avails it, though the fair-one swears
She from her infancy had some grey hairs?
She grows all hoary in a few more years,
And then the venerable truth appears.

The snake his skin, the deer his horns may cast,
And both renew their youth and vigours past:
But no receipt oan human-kind relieve,
Doom'd to decrepit age without reprieve.
Then crop the flower which yet invites your eye,
And which, ungather'd, on its stalk must die.
Besides, the tender sex is form'd to bear,
And frequent births too soon will youth impair :
Continual harvest wears the fruitful field,
And earth itself decays, too often till'd.
Thou didst not, Cynthia, scorn the Latmian swain;
Nor thou, Aurora, Cephalus disdain ;
The Paphian queen, who for Adonis' fate
So deeply monrn'd, and who laments him yet,
Has not been found inexorable since;
Witness Harmonia, and the Dardan prince.
Then take example, mortals, from above,
And like immortals live, and like them love.
Refuse not those delights, which men require,
Nor let your lovers languish with desire.
False tho' they prove, what loss can you sustain?
Thence let a thousand take, 'twill all remain.
Though constant use ev'n flint and steel impairs,
What you employ no diminution fears.
Who would, to light a torch, their torch deny?
Or who can dread drinking an ocean dry?
"Still women lose," you cry, "if men obtain ;"
What do they lose, that's worthy to retain ?
Think not this said to prostitute the sex,
But undeceive whom needless fears perplex.

Thus far a gentle breeze supplies our sail,
Now lanch'd to sea, we ask a brisker gale.
And, first, we treat of dress. The well-dress'd vine
Produces plumpest grapes, and richest wine;
And plenteous crops of golden grain are found,
Alone, to grace well-cultivated ground.
Beauty's the gift of gods, the sex's pride!
Yet to how many is that gift deny'd?
Art helps a face; a face, though heavenly fair,
May quickly fade for want of needful care.
In ancient days, if women slighted dress,
Then men were ruder too, and lik'd it less.
If Hector's spouse was clad in stubborn stuff,
A soldier's wife became it well enough.
Ajax, to shield his ample breast, provides
Seven lusty bulls, and tans their sturdy hides;
And might not he, d'ye think, be well caress'd,
And yet his wife not elegantly dress'd?
With rude simplicity Rome first was built,
Which now we see adorn'd, and carv'd, and gilt,
This capital with that of old compare;

Some other Jove, you'd think, was worshipp'd there.
That lofty pile, where senates dictate law,
When Tatius reign'd, was poorly thatch'd with


And where Apollo's fane refulgent stands,
Was heretofore a track of pasture-lands.

Let ancient manners other men delight;
But me the modern please, as more polite.
Not that materials now in gold are wrought,
And distant shores for orient pearls are sought:
Nor for, that hills exhaust their marble veins,
And structures rise whose bulk the sea restrains;
But, that the world is civiliz'd of late,
And pol sh'd from the rust of former date.
Let not the nymph with pendants load her ear,
Nor in embroidery, or brocade, appear;
Too rich a dress may sometimes check desire,
And cleanliness more animates Love's fire
The hair dispos'd, may gain or lose a grace,
And much become, or misbecome, the face.
What suits your features, of your glass inquire.;
For no one rule is fix'd for head-attire.

A face too long should part and flat the hair,
Lest, upward comb'd, the length too much appear;
So Laodamia dress'd. A face too round
Should show the ears, and with a tower be crown'd,
On either shoulder, one her locks displays;
Adorn'd like Phoebus, when he sings his lays:
Another, all her tresses ties behind;
So dress'd, Diana hunts the fearful hind.
Dishevell❜d locks most graceful are to some;
Others, the binding fillets more become:
Some plait, like spiral shells, their braided hair,
Others, the loose and waving curl prefer.
But to recount the several dresses worn,
Which artfully each several face adorn,
Were endless, as to tell the leaves on trees,
The beasts on Alpine hills, or Hybla's bees.
Many there are, who seem to slight all care,
And with a pleasing negligence ensnare ;
Whose mornings oft in such a dress are spent,
And all is art that looks like accident.
With such disorder Iole was grac'd,
When great Alcides first the nymph embrac'd.
So Ariadne came to Bacchus' bed,
When with the conqueror from Crete she fled.
Nature, indulgent to the sex, repays
The losses they sustain, by various ways.
Men ill supply those hairs they shed in age,
Lost, like autumnal leaves, when north winds rage.
Women, with juice of herbs, grey locks disguise,
And Art gives colour which with Nature vies.
The well-wove towers they wear, their own are

But only are their own, as what they've bought.
Nor need they blush to buy heads ready dress'd,
And choose, at public shops, what suits them best.
Costly apparel let the fair-one fly,
Enrich'd with gold, or with the Tyrian dye.
What folly must in such expense appear,
When more becoming colours are less dear?
One with a dye is ting'd of lovely blue,
Such as, through air serene, the sky we view.
With yellow lustre see another spread,
As if the golden-fleece compos'd the thread.
Some of the sea-green wave the cast display;
With this the nymphs their beauteous forms array;
And some the saffron hue will well adorn;
Such is the mantle of the blushing Morn.
Of myrtle-berries, one the tincture shows;
In this, of amethysts, the purple grows,
And that more imitates the paler rose.
Nor Thracian cranes forget, whose silvery plumes
Give patterns, which employ the mimic looms.
Nor almond, nor the chesnut dye disclaim;
Nor others, which from was derive their name.

As fields you find, with various flowers o'erspread,
When vineyards bud, and winter's frost is fled;
So various are the colours you may try,
Of which the thirsty wool imbibes the dye.
Try every one: what best becomes you, wear;
For no complexion all alike can bear.
If fair the skin, black may become it best,
In black the lovely fair Briseis dress'd:

If brown the nymph, let her be cloth'd in white,
Andromeda so charm'd the wondering sight.

I need not warn you of too powerful smells,
Which sometimes health, or kindly heat, expels.
Nor, from your tender legs to pluck with care
The casual growth of all unseemly hair.
Thongh not to nymphs of Caucasus I sing,
Nor such who taste remote the Mysian spring;
Yet, let me warn you, that, through no neglect,
You let your teeth disclose the least defect.
You know the use of white to make you fair,
And how, with red, lost colour to repair,
Imperfect eye-brows you by art can mend,
And skin, when wanting, o'er a scar extend.
Nor need the fair-one be asham'd, who tries,
By art, to add new lustre to her eyes.

A little book I've made, but with great care, How to preserve the face, and how repair. In that, the nymphs, by time or chance annoy'd, May see, what pains to please them I've employ'd. But, still beware, that from your lover's eye You keep conceal'd the med'cines you apply: Though art assists, yet must that art be hid, Lest, whom it would invite, it should forbid. Who would not take offence, to see a face All daub'd, and dripping with the melted grease? And tho' your unguents bear th' Athenian name, The wool's unsavoury scent is still the same. Marrow of stags, nor your pomatums try, Nor clean your furry teeth, when men are by; For many things, when done, afford delight, Which yet, while doing, may offend the sight. Ev'n Myro's statues, which for art surpass All others, once were but a shapeless mass; Rude was that gold which now in rings is worn, As once the robe you wear was wool unshorn. Think, how that stone rough in the quarry grew, Which, now, a perfect Venus shows to view. While we suppose you sleep, repair your face, Lock'd from observers, in some secret place. Add the last hand, before yourselves you show; Your need of art, why should your lovers know? For many things, when most conceal'd, are best ; And few of strict inquiry bear the test. Those figures which in theatres are seen, Gilded without, are common wood within. But no spectators are allow'd to pry, Till all is finish'd, which allures the eye.

Yet, I must own, it oft affords delight, To have the fair-one comb her hair in sight; To view the flowing honours of her head Fall on her neck, and o'er her shoulder spread. But let her look, that she with care avoid All fretful humours, while she's so employ'd; Let her not still undo, with peevish haste, All that her woman does, who does her best. I hate a vixen, that her maid assails, And scratches with her bodkin, or her nails; While the poor girl in blood and tears must mourn, And her heart corses, what her hands adorn.

Let her who has no hair, or has but some, Plant continels before her dressing-room:

Or in the fane of the good goddess dress, Where all the male-kind are debarr'd access. 'Tis said, that I (but 'tis a tale devis'd)

A lady at her toilet once surpris'd;

Who, starting, snatch'd in haste the tower she wore,
And, in a hurry, plac'd the hinder part before.
But on our foes fall every such disgrace,
Or barbarous beauties of the Parthian race.
Ungraceful 'tis to see without a horn
The lofty hart, whom branches best adorn;
A leafless tree, or an unverdant mead;
And as ungraceful is a hairless head.

But think not these instructions are design'd
For first-rate beauties of the finish'd kind :
Not to a Semele, or Leda bright,

Nor an Europa, these my rules I write ;
Nor the fair Helen do I teach, whose charms
Stirr'd up Atrides, and all Greece, to arms:
Thee to regain, well was that war begun,
And Paris well defended what he won;
What lover, or what husband, would not fight
In such a cause,
where both are in the right?
The crowd I teach, some homely, and some fair,
But, of the former sort, the larger share.
The handsome least require the help of Art,
Rich in themselves, and pleas'd with Nature's part.
When calm the sea, at ease the pilot lics,
But all his skill exerts when storms arise.

Faults in your person, or your face, correct:
And few are seen that have not some defect.
The nymph too short, her seat should seldom quit,
Lest, when she stands, she may be thought to sit;
And when extended on her couch she lies,
Let length of petticoats conceal her size.

The lean of thick-wrought stuff her clothes should choose,

And fuller made, than what the plumper use.
If pale, let her the crimson juice apply,
If swarthy, to the Pharian varnish fly.
A leg too lank, tight garters still must wear;
Nor should an ill-shap'd foot be ever bare.
Round shoulders, bolster'd, will appear the least;
And lacing strait, confines too full a breast.
Whose fingers are too fat, and nails too coarse,
Should always shun much gesture in discourse.
And you, whose breath is touch'd, this caution take,
Nor fasting, nor too near another, speak.
Let not the nymph with laughter much abound,
Whose teeth are black, uneven, or unsound.
You hardly think how much on this depends,
And how a laugh, or spoils a face, or mends.
Gape not too wide, lest you disclose your gums,
And lose the dimple which the check becomes.
Nor let your sides too strong concussions shake,
Lest you the softness of the sex forsake.
In some, distortions quite the face disguise;
Another laughs, that you would think she cries.
In one, too hoarse a voice we hear betray'd,
Another's is as harsh as if she bray'd.

What cannot art attain! Many, with ease, Have learn'd to weep, both when and how they please.

Others, through affectation, lisp, and find,
In imperfection, charms to catch mankind.
Neglect no means which may promote your ends;
Now learn what way of walking recommends..
Too masculine a motion shocks the sight;
But female grace allures with strange delight.
One has an artful swing and jut behind,
Which helps her coats to catch the swelling wind;

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