Classic Poem

Nor reigns Ambition in bold man alone;
Soft female hearts the rude Invader own,
But, there indeed, it deals in nicer things
Than routing armies , and dethroning kings .
Attend, and you discern it in the Fair
Conduct a finger , or reclaim a hair ;
Or roll the lucid orbit of an eye ;
Or in full joy elaborate a sigh .

The Sex we honour, tho' their faults we blame;
Nay thank their faults for such a fruitful theme.
A theme, fair — — ! doubly kind to me,
Since fatarizing those , is praising thee;
Who would'st not bear, too modestly refin'd,
A panegyrick of a grosser kind.

Britannia 's Daughters, much more fair than nice ,
Too fond of Admiration, lose their price;
Worn in the publick eye, give cheap delight
To throngs, and tarnish to the sated sight.
As unreserv'd, and beauteous, as the Sun,
Thro' every Sign of Vanity they run;
Assemblies , Parks , coarse feasts in city-halls ,
Lectures and trials, plays, committees, balls ,
Wells, Bedlams, executions, Smithfield -scenes,
And fortune-tellers caves, and lions dens,
Taverns, Exchanges, Bridewells, drawing-rooms,
Instalments, pillories, coronations, tombs,
Tumblers , and funerals, puppet-shews, reviews ,
Sales, races, rabbets , (and still stranger!) pews .

Clarinda 's bosom burns, but burns for Fame ;
And love lies vanquisht in a nobler flame;
Warm gleams of hope she, now , dispenses; then,
Like April -Suns, dives into clouds agen.
With all her lustre, now , her lover warms;
Then , out of ostentation , hides her charms.
'Tis next, her pleasure sweetly to complain,
And to be taken with a sudden pain;
Then, she starts up all ecstacy, and bliss,
And is, sweet Soul! just as sincere in this.
O how she rolls her charming eyes in spite !
And looks delightfully with all her might!
But like our Heroes, much more brave, than wise,
She conquers for the triumph, not the prize .

Zara resembles Ætna crown'd with snows;
Without she freezes, and within she glows;
Twice ere the sun descends, with zeal inspir'd,
From the vain converse of the world retir'd,
She reads the psalms , and chapters for the day
In — — Cleopatra , or the last new play.
Thus gloomy Zara with a solemn grace
Deceives mankind, and hides behind her face .

Nor far beneath her in renown is she
Who, thro' good-breeding, is ill-company.
Whose Manners will not let her larum cease,
Who thinks you are unhappy , when at peace .
To find you news who racks her subtile head,
And vows — That her great grandfather is dead .

A dearth of words a woman need not fear,
But 'tis a task indeed to learn — — to hear .
In that the skill of conversation lies.
That shows , or makes you both polite, and wife.

Zantippe cries " let Nymphs who nought cay say,
" Be lost in silence, and resign the day:
" And let the guilty wife her guilt confess
" By tame behaviour, and a soft address. "
Thro' virtue, she refuses to comply
With all the dictates of humanity ;
Thro' wisdom, she refuses to submit
To wisdom's rules, and raves to prove her wit :
Then, her unblemisht honour to maintain,
Rejects her Husband's kindness with disdain,
But if by chance an ill-adapted word
Drops from the lip of her unwary Lord,
Her darling China in a whirlwind sent
Just intimates the Lady's discontent.

Wine may indeed excite the meekest dame,
But keen Zantippe scorning borrow'd flame,
Can vent her thunders, and her lightnings play,
O'er cooling gruel , and composing tea .
Nor rests by night, but more sincere than nice,
She shakes the curtains with her kind advice.
Doubly like Eccho, sound is her delight,
And the last word is her eternal right.
Is't not enough plagues, wars, and famines rise
To lash our crimes, but must our wives be wise ?
Famine, plague, war, and an unnumber'd throng
Of guilt-avenging ills, to man belong;
What black , what ceaseless cares besiege our state?
What strokes we feel from fancy , and from fate ?
If fate forbears us, fancy strikes the blow,
We make misfortune, Suicides in woe.
Superfluous aid! unnecessary skill?
Is nature backward to torment, or kill?
How oft the noon , how oft the midnight bell,
(That iron tongue of death!) with solemn knell,
On folly 's errands, as we vainly roam,
Knocks at our hearts, and finds our thoughts from home?
Men drop so fast, ere life's mid stage we tread,
Few know so many friends alive , as dead .
Yet, as immortal , in our uphill chace
We press coy fortune with unflacken'd pace;
Our ardent labours for the toys we seek,
Join night to day, and sunday to the week.
Our very joys are anxious, and expire
Between satiety and fierce desire .
Now what reward for all this grief, and toil?
But one ; a female friend's endearing smile;
A tender smile, our sorrow's only balm,
And, in life's tempest, the sad sailor's calm.
How have I seen a gentle Nymph draw nigh,
Peace in her air, persuasion in her eye;
Victorious tenderness! it all o'ercame,
Husbands look'd mild, and savages grew tame.

The Sylvan race our active Nymphs pursue;
Man is not all the game they have in view;
In woods, and fields their Glory they compleat,
There Master Betty leaps a five-barr'd Gate,
While fair Miss Charles to Toilets is confin'd,
Nor rashly tempts the barbarous sun, and wind.
Some Nymphs affect a more heroic breed,
And vault from hunters to the manag'd Steed ;
Command his prancings with a martial air,
And Fobert has the forming of the fair .
More than one steed must Delia 's empire feel,
Who sits triumphant o'er the flying wheel ;
And as she guides it thro' th' admiring throng,
With what an air she smacks the silken thong?
Graceful, as John , she moderates the reins,
And whistles sweet her diuretic strains.
Sesostris -like, such Charioteers as these
May drive six harnest monarchs , if they please.
They drive, row, run , with love of Glory smit,
Leap, swim, shoot-flying , and pronounce on wit .

O'er the Belle-lettre lovely Daphne reigns,
Again the God Apollo wears her chains.
With legs tost high on her Sophee she sits,
Vouchsasing audience to contending Wits;
Of each performance she's the final test;
One Act read o'er, she prophesies the rest;
And then pronouncing with decisive air
Fully convinces all the town — — she's fair .
Had lovely Daphne Hecatessa 's face,
How would her elegance of taste decrease?
Some Ladies judgement , in their features , lies,
And all their Genius sparkles from their eyes .
But hold, she cries, Lampooner! have a care:
Must I want common sense, because I'm fair?
O no: see Stella , her Eyes shine as bright,
As if her tongue was never in the right;
And yet what real learning, judgment, fire!
She seems inspir'd, and can herself inspire;
How then, (if malice rul'd not all the fair)
Could Daphne publish, and could she forbear?
We grant that beauty is no bar to sense ,
Nor is't a sanction for impertinence .

Semprania lik'd her man, and well she might,
The youth in person, and in parts was bright;
Possest of every virtue, grace, and art,
That claims just empire o'er the female Heart.
He met her passion, 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't; when with one acre more
In stept deform'd, debauch'd, diseas'd threescore .
The fatal sequel I thro' 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 appetites.
Fancy, and Pride seek things at vast expence,
Which relish nor 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 naught 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 curt'fies 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 colicks , 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 ?
Tho' 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 doctors-bill .

Alas! my heart, how languishingly 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 Viny 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 pray'rs she rather chose,
" Than be that wretch to sleep 'till morning rose. "
Then Lady Cynthia , Mistress of the shade,
Goes, with the fashionable 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 shines in glossy black , and then
Revolves into her native red agen.
Like a Dove's neck, she shifts her transient charms,
And is her own dear rival in your arms.

But one admirer has the painted lass,
Nor finds that one, but in her looking-glass.
Yet Laura 's beautiful to such excels,
That all her art scarce makes her please the less :
To deck the female cheek He only knows,
Who paints less fair the lilly , and the rose .

How gay they smile? such blessings nature pours,
O'er-stockt mankind enjoy but half her stores;
In distant wilds, by human eyes unseen,
She rears her flow'rs, and spreads her velvet green.
Pure gurgling rills the lonely desart trace,
And waste their musick on the savage race.
Is Nature then a niggard of her bliss?
Repine we guiltless in a world like this?
But our lewd tastes her lawful charms refuse,
And painted Arts deprav'd allurement chuse.
Such Fluvia 's passion 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 prest to death transports her quite.
Where silver riv'lets play thro' 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;
Thro' briers, and brambles in the world we stray,
Stiff opposition, and perplext debate,
And thorny care, and rank and stinging hate,
Which choke our passage, our career control,
And wound the firmest temper of the soul.
O sacred solitude! divine retreat!
Choice of the prudent! envy of the great!
Bv 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 lay'd safe ashore,
We smile to hear the distant tempest roar;
There , blest with health, with business unperplext,
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! tho' 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.

Phaebe , tho' 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! "
Tho' well she knows, 'twill languish into sorrow.
But she dares never boast the present hour,
So gross that cheat, it is beyond her pow'r.
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 Quick-silver , 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 glass 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 amusement all the night employ'd,
The morning came, when Strephon waking found
(Surprizing sight!) his Bride in sorrow drown'd.
" What miracle, says Strephon , makes thee weep?
" Ah barbarous man, she cries, how cou'd 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 appetites 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 passion more refin'd,
For those few nymphs whose charms are of the mind.
But not of that unfashionable set
Is Phillis: Phillis and her Damon met.
Eternal love exactly hits her taste;
Phillis demands eternal love at least .
Embracing Phillis 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 men, and range above.
The fair Philosopher to Rowley flies,
Where in a box the whole Creation lies.
She sees the Planets in their turns advance;
And scorns, Poitier , thy sublunary dance.
Of Desagulier she bespeaks fresh air,
And Whiston has engagements with the fair.
What vain experiments Sophronia tries!
'Tis not in air-pumps the gay Colonel dies,
But tho' to-day this rage of science reigns,
(O fickle sex!) soon end her learned pains.
Lo! Pug from Jupiter her heart has got,
Turns out the stars, and Newton is a sot.
To — — — turn, she never took the height
Of Saturn , yet is ever in the right,
She strikes each point with native force of mind,
While puzzled learning blunders far behind.
Graceful to sight, and elegant to thought,
The great are vanquisht, and the wise are taught.
Her breeding finisht, and her temper sweet,
When serious, easy; and when gay, discreet;
In glitt'ring scenes, o'er her own heart, severe;
In crowds, collected; and in courts, sincere;
Sincere, and warm, with zeal well-understood,
She takes a noble pride in doing good.
Yet not superior to her sex's cares,
The mode she fixes by the gown she wears;
Of Silks , and China she's the last appeal;
In these great points she leads the common-weal;
And if disputes of empire rise between
Mechlin the queen of lace, and Colberteen ,
'Tis doubt! 'tis darkness! 'till suspended fate
Assumes her nod to close the grand debate.
When such her mind, why will the fair express
Their emulation only in their dress?
But O! the Nymph that mounts above the Skies ,
And, gratis , clears religious mysteries!
Resolv'd the Church 's welfare to insure,
And make her family a Sine-cure .
The theme divine at cards she'll not forget,
But takes in texts of scripture at piquet?
In those licentious meetings acts the prude,
And thanks her maker that her cards are good.
What Angels wou'd these be, who thus excel
In Theologicks, could they sew as well!
Yet why shou'd not the fair her text pursue?
Can she more decently the Doctor wooe?
'Tis hard too, she who makes no use but chat
Of her Religion, shou'd be barr'd in that.
Isaac , a brother of the canting strain,
When he has knockt at his own scull in vain,
To beauteous Marcia often will repair
With a dark text, to light it at the fair .
O how his pious soul exults to find
Such love for holy men in womankind?
Charm'd with her learning, with what rapture, he
Hangs on her bloom , like an industrious bee ,
Hums round about her, and with all his pow'r
Extracts sweet wisdom from so fair a Flow'r?

The young and gay declining, Abra flies
At nobler game, the mighty and the wise:
By nature more an Eagle than a Dove ,
She impiously prefers the World to Love .
Can wealth give happiness? look round, and see
What gay distress! what splendid misery!
Whatever fortune lavishly can pour
The mind annihilates, and calls for more,
Wealth is a cheat, believe not what it says,
Like any Lord it promises — — and pays .
How will the miser startle to be told
Of such a wonder, as insolvent gold?
What nature wants has an intrinsick weight;
All more , is but the fashion of the plate,
Which, for one moment, charms the fickle view,
It charms us now, anon we cast anew,
To some fresh birth of Fancy more inclin'd:
Then wed not acres, but a noble mind.

Mistaken lovers who make worth their care,
And think accomplishments will win the fair.
The fair 'tis true by Genius shou'd be won,
As flow'rs unfold their beauties to the sun ;
And yet in female scales a fop outweighs,
And wit must wear the willow , with the bays .
Nought shines so bright in vain Liberia 's eye
As riot, impudence, and perfidy;
The youth of fire, that has drunk deep, and play'd,
And kill'd his man, and triumph'd o'er his maid;
For him, as yet un-hang'd, she spreads her charms,
Snatches the dear destroyer to her arms;
And amply gives, (tho' treated long amiss)
The man of merit his revenge in this .
If you resent, and wish a woman ill,
But turn her o'er one moment to her will .

The languid lady next appears in state,
Who was not born to carry her own weight;
She lolls, reels, staggers, 'till some foreign aid
To her own stature lifts the feeble maid.
Then, if ordain'd to so severe a doom,
She, by just stages journeys round the room:
But knowing her own weakness, she despairs
To scale the Alps — — — that is, ascend the stairs .
My fan! let others say who laugh at toil;
Fan! hood! glove! scarf! is her laconick style.
And that is spoke with such a dying fall,
That Betty rather sees , than hears the call:
The motion of her lips, and meaning eye
Piece out th' Idea her faint words deny.
O listen with attention most profound!
Her voice is but the shadow of a sound.
And help! O help! her spirits are so dead,
One hand scarce lifts the other to her head.
If, there, a stubborn pin it triumphs o'er,
She pants! she sinks away? and is no more.
Let the robust, and the gigantick carve ,
Life is not worth so much, she'd rather starve ;
But chew she must herself, ah cruel fate!
That Rosalinda can't by proxy eat.
An antidote in female caprice lies
(Kind Heav'n!) against the poison of their eyes.

Thalestris triumphs in a manly mien,
Loud is her accent, and her phrase obscene.
In fair, and open dealing where's the shame?
What nature dares to give , she dares to name .
This honest fellow is sincere and plain,
And justly gives the jealous husband pain.
(Vain is the task to Petticoats assign'd,
If wanton language shews a naked mind.)
And now and then, to grace her eloquence,
An oath supplies the vacancies of sense.
Hark! the shrill notes transpierce the yielding air,
And teach the neighb'ring ecchos how to swear.
By Jove , is faint, and for the simple swain;
She, on the christian System, is prophane.
But tho' the volly rattles in your ear,
Believe her dress , she's not a granadeer.
If thunder's awful, how much more our dread,
When Jove deputes a Lady in his stead?
A Lady! pardon my mistaken pen.
A shameless woman is the worst of Men .
Few to good-breeding make a just pretence,
Good-breeding is the blossom of good sense;
The last result of an accomplisht mind,
With outward grace, the body's virtue , join'd.
A violated decency, now, reigns;
And Nymphs for failings take peculiar pains.
With Indian painters modern toasts agree,
The point they aim at is deformity:
They throw their persons with a hoydon-air
Across the room, and toss into the chair.
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 dy'd , her parents pay'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 — — — self will be polite.
Ye rising fair! Ye bloom of Britain 's Isle!
When highborn 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 publick place.
O how your beating breast a Mistress warms
Who Looks thro' spectacles to see your charms!
While rival undertakers hover round;
And with his spade the sexton marks the ground,
Intent not on her own, but others doom,
She plans new conquests, and defrauds the tomb.
In vain the cock has summon'd sprights 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 assume 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 was the sacred age
Of prudent Portia? Her grey hairs engage ,
Whose thoughts are suited to her life's decline.
Virtue 's the paint that can make wrinkles shine.
That, and that only can old age sustain,
Which yet all wish, nor know they wish for pain .
Not numerous 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 a-pace ; 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 blushing rose-buds dipt in morning dew?
Who into shelter takes their tender bloom,
And forms their minds to fly 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 passion toss it to and fro,
A-while 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 our sex a blot has thrown,
'Twill ever stick, thro' 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.
Arts 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 sex's glory 'tis to shine unknown ,
Of all applause, be fondest of your own .
Beware the fever of the mind! that thirst
With which this 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 .