Part 10 (1/2)

We grant that beauty is no bar to sense, Nor is't a sanction for impertinence.

Semp.r.o.nia lik'd her man; and well she might; The youth in person, and in parts, was bright; Possess'd of every virtue, grace, and art, That claims just empire o'er the female heart: He met her pa.s.sion, 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, through 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 appet.i.tes: Fancy, and pride, seek things at vast expense, 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 air-pumps, 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 curtsies 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: 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 sov'reign 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?

Though 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 pill.

Alas, my heart! how languis.h.i.+ngly 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(14) 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 prayers she rather chose, Than be that wretch to sleep till morning rose.”

Then lady Cynthia, mistress of the shade, Goes, with the fas.h.i.+onable 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 s.h.i.+nes in glossy black; and then Revolves into her native red again: Like a dove's neck, she s.h.i.+fts her transient charms, And is her own dear rival in your arms.

But one admirer has the painted la.s.s; Nor finds that one, but in her looking-gla.s.s: 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'erstock'd mankind enjoy but half her stores: In distant wilds, by human eyes unseen, She rears her flowers, and spreads her velvet green: Pure gurgling rills the lonely desert trace, And waste their music on the savage race.

Is nature then a n.i.g.g.ard of her bliss?

Repine we guiltless in a world like this?

But our lewd tastes her lawful charms refuse, And painted art's depraved allurements choose.

Such Fulvia's pa.s.sion 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 through 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; Through briers and brambles in the world we stray; Stiff opposition, and perplex'd debate, And th.o.r.n.y care, and rank and stinging hate, Which choke our pa.s.sage, 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 ash.o.r.e, We smile to hear the distant tempest roar; There, bless'd with health, with business 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! though 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.

Phbe, though 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!”

Though, well she knows, 'twill languish into sorrow: But she dares never boast the present hour; So gross that cheat, it is beyond her power: 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 strive 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 gla.s.s 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 you--sleep?”

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: But soon the sated appet.i.tes return, Again our stomachs crave, our bosoms burn: Eternal love let man, then, never swear; Let women never triumph, nor despair; Nor praise, nor blame, too much, the warm, or chill; Hunger and love are foreign to the will.

There is indeed a pa.s.sion more refin'd, For those few nymphs whose charms are of the mind: But not of that unfas.h.i.+onable set Is Phyllis; Phyllis and her Damon met.

Eternal love exactly hits her taste; Phyllis demands eternal love at least.

Embracing Phyllis with soft smiling eyes, Eternal love I vow, the swain replies: But say, my all, my mistress, and my friend!

What day next week th' eternity shall end?

Some nymphs prefer astronomy to love: Elope from mortal man, and range above.