Part 13 (1/2)

O Juvenal! for thy severer rage!

To lash the ranker follies of our age.

Are there, among the females of our isle, Such faults, at which it is a fault to smile?

There are. Vice, once by modest nature chain'd And legal ties, expatiates unrestrain'd; Without thin decency held up to view, Naked she stalks o'er law and gospel too.

Our matrons lead such exemplary lives, Men sigh in vain for none, but for their wives; Who marry to be free, to range the more, And wed one man to wanton with a score.

Abroad too kind, at home 'tis steadfast hate, And one eternal tempest of debate.

What foul eruptions, from a look most meek!

What thunders bursting, from a dimpled cheek!

Their pa.s.sions bear it with a lofty hand!

But then, their reason is at due command.

Is there whom you detest, and seek his life?

Trust no soul with the secret-but his wife.

Wives wonder that their conduct I condemn, And ask, what kindred is a spouse to them?

What swarms of am'rous grandmothers I see!

And misses, ancient in iniquity?

What blasting whispers, and what loud declaiming!

What lying, drinking, bawding, swearing, gaming!

Friends.h.i.+p so cold, such warm incontinence; Such griping av'rice, such profuse expense; Such dead devotion, such a zeal for crimes; Such licens'd ill, such masquerading times; Such venal faith, such misapplied applause; Such flatter'd guilt, and such inverted laws; Such dissolution through the whole I find, 'Tis not a world, but chaos of mankind.

Since Sundays have no b.a.l.l.s, the well-dress'd belle s.h.i.+nes in the pew, but smiles to hear of h.e.l.l; And casts an eye of sweet disdain on all, Who listens less to Collins than St. Paul.

Atheists have been but rare; since nature's birth, Till now, she-atheists ne'er appear'd on earth.

Ye men of deep researches, say, whence springs This daring character, in timorous things?

Who start at feathers, from an insect fly, A match for nothing-but the Deity.

But, not to wrong the fair, the muse must own In this pursuit they court not fame alone; But join to that a more substantial view, ”From thinking free, to be free agents too.”

They strive with their own hearts, and keep them down, In complaisance to all the fools in town.

O how they tremble at the name of prude!

And die with shame at thought of being good!

For what will Artimis, the rich and gay, What will the wits, that is, the c.o.xcombs say?

They heaven defy, to earth's vile dregs a slave; Thro' cowardice, most execrably brave.

With our own judgments durst we to comply, In virtue should we live, in glory die.

Rise then, my muse, in honest fury rise; They dread a satire, who defy the skies.

Atheists are few: most nymphs a G.o.dhead own; And nothing but his attributes dethrone.

From Atheists far, they steadfastly believe G.o.d is, and is Almighty--to forgive.

His other excellence they'll not dispute; But mercy, sure, is his chief attribute.

Shall pleasures of a short duration chain A lady's soul in everlasting pain?

Will the great Author us poor worms destroy, For now and then a sip of transient joy?

No, he's for ever in a smiling mood; He's like themselves, or how could he be good?

And they blaspheme, who blacker schemes suppose.- Devoutly, thus, Jehovah they depose, The pure! the just! and set up, in his stead, A deity, that's perfectly well bred.

”Dear Tillotson! be sure the best of men; Nor thought he more, than thought great Origen, Though once upon a time he misbehav'd; Poor Satan! doubtless, he'll at length be sav'd.

Let priests do something for their one in ten; It is their trade; so far they're honest men.

Let them cant on, since they have got the knack, And dress their notions, like themselves, in black; Fright us, with terrors of a world unknown, From joys of this, to keep them all their own.

Of earth's fair fruits, indeed, they claim a fee; But then they leave our unt.i.th'd virtue free.

Virtue's a pretty thing to make a show: Did ever mortal write like Rochefocaut?”

Thus pleads the devil's fair apologist, And, pleading, safely enters on his list.

Let angel-forms angelic truths maintain; Nature disjoins the beauteous and profane.

For what's true beauty, but fair virtue's face?

Virtue made visible in outward grace?

She, then, that's haunted with an impious mind, The more she charms, the more she shocks mankind.

But charms decline: the fair long vigils keep: They sleep no more! (17)quadrille has murder'd sleep.

”Poor K-p! cries Livia; I have not been there These two nights; the poor creature will despair.