Part 11 (1/2)
So far their commerce with mankind is gone, They, for our manners, have exchang'd their own.
The modest look, the castigated grace, The gentle movement, and slow measur'd pace, For which her lovers died, her parents pray'd, Are indecorums with the modern maid.
Stiff forms are bad; but let not worse intrude, Nor conquer art and nature, to be rude.
Modern good-breeding carry to its height, And lady D--'s self will be polite.
Ye rising fair! ye bloom of Britain's isle!
When high-born Anna, with a soften'd smile, Leads on your train, and sparkles at your head, What seems most hard, is, not to be well bred.
Her bright example with success pursue, And all, but adoration, is your due.
But adoration! give me something more, Cries Lyce, on the borders of threescore: Nought treads so silent as the foot of time; Hence we mistake our autumn for our prime; 'Tis greatly wise to know, before we're told, The melancholy news, that we grow old.
Autumnal Lyce carries in her face Memento mori to each public place.
O how your beating breast a mistress warms, Who looks through spectacles to see your charms!
While rival undertakers hover round, And with his spade the s.e.xton marks the ground, Intent not on her own, but others' doom, She plans new conquests, and defrauds the tomb.
In vain the c.o.c.k has summon'd sprites away, She walks at noon, and blasts the bloom of day.
Gay rainbow silks her mellow charms infold, And nought of Lyce but herself is old.
Her grizzled locks a.s.sume a smirking grace, And art has levell'd her deep-furrow'd face.
Her strange demand no mortal can approve, We'll ask her blessing, but can't ask her love.
She grants, indeed, a lady may decline (All ladies but herself) at ninety-nine.
O how unlike her is the sacred age Of prudent Portia! her gray hairs engage; Whose thoughts are suited to her life's decline: Virtue's the paint that can with wrinkles s.h.i.+ne.
That, and that only, can old age sustain; Which yet all wish, nor know they wish for pain.
Not num'rous are our joys, when life is new; And yearly some are falling of the few; But when we conquer life's meridian stage, And downward tend into the vale of age, They drop apace; by nature some decay, And some the blasts of fortune sweep away; Till naked quite of happiness, aloud We call for death, and shelter in a shroud.
Where's Portia now?-But Portia left behind Two lovely copies of her form and mind.
What heart untouch'd their early grief can view, Like blus.h.i.+ng rose-buds dipp'd in morning dew?
Who into shelter takes their tender bloom, And forms their minds to flee from ills to come?
The mind, when turn'd adrift, no rules to guide, Drives at the mercy of the wind and tide; Fancy and pa.s.sion toss it to and fro; Awhile torment, and then quite sink in woe.
Ye beauteous orphans, since in silent dust Your best example lies, my precepts trust.
Life swarms with ills; the boldest are afraid; Where then is safety for a tender maid?
Unfit for conflict, round beset with woes, And man, whom least she fears, her worst of foes!
When kind, most cruel; when oblig'd the most, The least obliging; and by favours lost.
Cruel by nature, they for kindness hate; And scorn you for those ills themselves create.
If on your fame your s.e.x a blot has thrown, 'Twill ever stick, through malice of your own.
Most hard! in pleasing your chief glory lies; And yet from pleasing your chief dangers rise: Then please the best; and know, for men of sense, Your strongest charms are native innocence.
Art on the mind, like paint upon the face, Fright him, that's worth your love, from your embrace.
In simple manners all the secret lies; Be kind and virtuous, you'll be blest and wise.
Vain show and noise intoxicate the brain, Begin with giddiness, and end in pain.
Affect not empty fame, and idle praise, Which, all those wretches I describe, betrays.
Your s.e.x's glory 'tis, to s.h.i.+ne unknown; Of all applause, be fondest of your own.
Beware the fever of the mind! that thirst With which the age is eminently curst: To drink of pleasure, but inflames desire; And abstinence alone can quench the fire; Take pain from life, and terror from the tomb; Give peace in hand; and promise bliss to come.
Satire VI.
On Women.
Inscribed to the Right Honourable the Lady Elizabeth Germain.
Interdum tamen et tollit comdia vocem.
-HOR.
I sought a patroness, but sought in vain.
Apollo whisper'd in my ear-”Germain.”- I know her not.-”Your reason's somewhat odd; Who knows his patron, now?” replied the G.o.d.
”Men write, to me, and to the world, unknown; Then steal great names, to s.h.i.+eld them from the town.