Part 12 (1/2)
She tries a thousand arts; but none succeed: She's forc'd a fever to procure indeed: Thus strictly prov'd this virtuous, loving wife, Her husband's pain was dearer than her life.
Anxious Melania rises to my view, Who never thinks her lover pays his due: Visit, present, treat, flatter, and adore; Her majesty, to-morrow, calls for more.
His wounded ears complaints eternal fill, As unoil'd hinges, querulously shrill.
”You went last night with Celia to the ball.”
You prove it false. ”Not go! that's worst of all.”
Nothing can please her, nothing not inflame; And arrant contradictions are the same.
Her lover must be sad, to please her spleen; His mirth is an inexpiable sin: For of all rivals that can pain her breast, There's one, that wounds far deeper than the rest; To wreck her quiet, the most dreadful shelf Is if her lover dares enjoy himself.
And this, because she's exquisitely fair: Should I dispute her beauty, how she'd stare!
How would Melania be surpris'd to hear She's quite deform'd! And yet the case is clear; What's female beauty, but an air divine, Thro' which the mind's all gentle graces s.h.i.+ne?
They, like the sun, irradiate all between; The body charms because the soul is seen.
Hence, men are often captives of a face, They know not why, of no peculiar grace: Some forms, tho' bright, no mortal man can bear; Some, none resist, tho' not exceeding fair.
Aspasia's highly born, and nicely bred, Of taste refin'd, in life and manners read; Yet reaps no fruit from her superior sense, But to be teaz'd by her own excellence.
”Folks are so awkward! things so unpolite!”
She's elegantly pain'd from morn till night.
Her delicacy's shock'd where'er she goes; Each creature's imperfections are her woes.
Heaven by its favour has the fair distrest, And pour'd such blessings-that she can't be blest.
Ah! why so vain, though blooming in thy spring, Thou s.h.i.+ning, frail, ador'd, and wretched thing?
Old age will come; disease may come before; Fifteen is full as mortal as threescore.
Thy fortune, and thy charms, may soon decay: But grant these fugitives prolong their stay, Their basis totters, their foundation shakes; Life, that supports them, in a moment breaks; Then wrought into the soul let virtues s.h.i.+ne; The ground eternal, as the work divine.
Julia's a manager; she's born for rule; And knows her wiser husband is a fool; a.s.semblies holds, and spins the subtle thread That guides the lover to his fair one's bed: For difficult amours can smooth the way, And tender letters dictate, or convey.
But if depriv'd of such important cares, Her wisdom condescends to less affairs.
For her own breakfast she'll project a scheme, Nor take her tea without a stratagem; Presides o'er trifles with a serious face; Important by the virtue of grimace.
Ladies supreme among amus.e.m.e.nts reign; By nature born to soothe, and entertain.
Their prudence in a share of folly lies: Why will they be so weak, as to be wise?
Syrena is for ever in extremes, And with a vengeance she commends, or blames.
Conscious of her discernment, which is good, She strains too much to make it understood.
Her judgment just, her sentence is too strong; Because she's right, she's ever in the wrong.
Brunetta's wise in actions great, and rare; But scorns on trifles to bestow her care.
Thus ev'ry hour Brunetta is to blame, Because th' occasion is beneath her aim, Think nought a trifle, though it small appear; Small sands the mountain, moments make the year, And trifles life. Your care to trifles give, Or you may die, before you truly live.
Go breakfast with Alicia, there you'll see, Simplex munditiis, to the last degree: Unlac'd her stays, her night-gown is untied, And what she has of head-dress is aside.
She drawls her words, and waddles in her pace; Unwash'd her hands, and much besnuff'd her face.
A nail uncut, and head uncomb'd, she loves; And would draw on jack-boots, as soon as gloves.
Gloves by Queen Bess's maidens might be miss'd; Her blessed eyes ne'er saw a female fist.
Lovers, beware! to wound how can she fail With scarlet finger, and long jetty nail?
For Harvey the first wit she cannot be, Nor, cruel Richmond, the first toast for thee.
Since full each other station of renown, Who would not be the greatest trapes in town?
Women were made to give our eyes delight; A female sloven is an odious sight.
Fair Isabella is so fond of fame, That her dear self is her eternal theme; Through hopes of contradiction, oft she'll say, ”Methinks I look so wretchedly to-day!”
When most the world applauds you, most beware; 'Tis often less a blessing than a snare.
Distrust mankind; with your own heart confer; And dread even there to find a flatterer.
The breath of others raises our renown; Our own as surely blows the pageant down.
Take up no more than you by worth can claim, Lest soon you prove a bankrupt in your fame.
But own I must, in this perverted age, Who most deserve, can't always most engage.
So far is worth from making glory sure, It often hinders what it should procure.
Whom praise we most? The virtuous, brave, and wise?
No; wretches, whom, in secret, we despise.
And who so blind, as not to see the cause?
No rivals rais'd by such discreet applause; And yet, of credit it lays in a store, By which our spleen may wound true worth the more.
Ladies there are who think one crime is all: Can women, then, no way but backward fall?
So sweet is that one crime they don't pursue, To pay its loss, they think all others few.
Who hold that crime so dear, must never claim Of injur'd modesty the sacred name.