On *** ****

Timon of London here is laid,
Who was a close rich, testy Blade :
Lest any Mortal , now alive,
Shou'd by his mighty Treasure thrive,
'Tis by his Will to Heirs convey'd,
Still to be gotten, born , and bred .

On Mrs. Beata F******

Stay, Youth , and o'er this Marble weep,
Where now alone , and fast asleep
Beata lies, poor Sinner!
Alive, so tempting , so resign'd ,
She ever charm'd , yet spar'd Mankind
The Time , and Pains to win her.

Answer to Strephon

O Strephon! how useless your Counsel must prove,
Who sighs for Belinda for ever must love;
For thus the dread Power of Love has decreed!
Who once wears her Fetters shall never be freed,
On absolute Beauty an absolute Sway
Is justly bestow'd, and with Pride we obey.

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