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The safe director of unguided youth,
Slow of belief, and fickle in desire, Fraught with kind wishes, and secur'd by truth; Who, ere they'll be persuaded, muft enquire, That cordial-drop heaven in cur cup has thrown, As if they came to fpy, and not t'admire : To make the nauseous draught of life go down ; With searching wisdom, fatal to their ease, On which one only blessing God might raise, They still find out why what may should not please; In lands of Atheists, sublidies of praise :
Nay, take themselves for injur'd, when we dare For none did e'er fo dull and stupid prove,
Make them think better of us than we are; But felt a God, and bless'd his power, in love : And if we hide our frailties from their fights, This only joy, for which poor we are made,
Call us deceitful jilts and hypocrites; Is grown, like play, to be an arrant trade : They little guess, who at our arts are griev'd, The rooks creepin, and it has got of late
The perfect joy of being well deceiv'd; As many little cheats and tricks as that ;
Inquisitive as jealous cuckolds grow; But, what yet more a woman's heart would vex, Rather than not be knowing, they will know 'Tis chiefly carry'd on by our own sex;
What, being known, creates their certain woe. Our Giliy sex, who born, like monarchs, free, Women should these, of all mankind, avoid, Turn Gipfies for a meaner liberty,
For wonder, by clear knowledge, is destroy'd
. And hate restraint, though but from infamy: Woman, who is an arrant bird of night, That call whatever is not common nice,
Bold in the dusk, before a fool's dull fight And, deaf to Nature's rule, or Love's advice, Must fly, when Reason brings the glaring light. Forsake the pleasure, to pursue the vice.
But the kind easy fool, apt to admire 'To an exact perfection they have brought Himself, trusts us; his follies all conspire The adion Love, the passion is forgot.
To flatter his, and favour our desire: 'Tis below wit, they tell you, to admire, Vain of his proper mierit, he with ease And ev’n without approving they desire: Belicves we love him best, who best can please; Their private with obeys the public voice, On him our gross, dull, common flatteries pass, 'Twixt good and bad whimsy decides, not choice : Ever most hapry when most made an ass; Fashions grow up for taste, at forms they strike, Heavy to apprehend, though all mankind They know what they would have, not what they Perceive us false, the fop himself is blind; like.
Who, doating on himselfBovy's a beauty, if some few agrec
Thinks every one that sees him of his mind. 'To call him so, the rest to that degree
These are true womens men-Here, forc'd to cenie Affected arc, that with their ears they see.
Through want of breath, not will, to hold het Where I was visiting the other night,
peace, Comes a fine lady, with her hunible knight, She to the window runs, where she had spy'd Who had prevail'd with her, through her own Her much-esteemid dear friend, the monkey, ty2; skill,
With forty smiles, as many antic bows, At his request, though much against his will, As if 't had been the lady of the house, To come to London
The dirty chattering monster she embrac'd, As the coach stopt, I heard her voice, more loud And made it this fine tender speech at lait : Than a great-belly d woman's in a croud;
Kiss me, thou curious miniature of man; Telling the knight, that her affairs require How odd thon art, how pretty, how jaran! He, for some hours, obfequiously retire.
Oh! I could live and die with thee: then on, I think she was asham'd he should be seen :
For half an hour, in compliments she ran : Hard fate of husbands! the gallant had been, I took this time to think what Nature meant,
When this mixt thing into the world she sent, Dispatch, says she, the business you pretend, So very wisc, yet so impertinent : Your beastly visit to your drunken friend, One that knows every thing that God thought :, A bottle ever makes you look so fine;
Should be an ass through choice, not want or wit; Methinks I long to smell you stink of wine. Whose foppery, without the help of sense, Your country drinking breath 's enough to kill; Could ne'er have rose to such an excellence : Sour ale corrected with a lemon-peel.
Nature 's as lame in making a true fop,
And dignity of folly we attain
By obfervation, counsel, and deep thought: And then bursts out-Dear madam, am not I God never made a coxcomb worth a groat; The strangelt, alter'd creature : let me die, We owe that name to industry and arts : I find myself ridiculously grown,
An eminent fool must be a fool of parts, Embarrast with my being out of town :
And such a one was fhe, who had turu'd o'er Rude and untaught, like any Indian queen, As many books as men, lov'd much, read mort, My country nakedness is plainly seen.
Had a discerning wit; to her was known How is Love govern'd? Love that rules the state ; Every one's fault, or merit, but her own. And pray who are the men most worn of late ? All the good qualities that ever bleit When I was marry'd, fools were à-la-mode, A woman fo distinguish'd from the rest, The men of wit were then held incommode : Except discrction only, the pollet.
Healthful and strong, be doce no pains erdure
Thus the ran on two hours, fome grains of fense
2 To Cloe, fince I cannot choofc but know, Readers muli roap what dullest writers fuw. By the next prut I will such stories tell, As, join'd to these, shall to a volume swell; As true as haren, more infamous than hell, But you are tir d, and fu am i. Farewell.
AN EPISTOLARY ESSAY
FROM LORD ROCHESTER TO LORD MULGRAVE,
THEIR MUTUAL POEMS.
In faucy censurers, that faults are found
? T'obtain one line of
well-wordesi sense, Ull be content t' have writ the “ British Prince.". I'm none of those who think themselves inspiru, Nor write with the vain hope to be admir'd; But from a rule I have (upon long trial) T'avoid with care all sort of feliderial. Which way fue'er defire and fancy lead, (Contenining fame), that path i boldly tread: And if exposing what I take for wit, To my dear fell a pleasure i beget, No matter though the censuring critics fret. These whom my Mufe difpleases are at ftrise, With equal fpbeen, against my course of life;,
But now, mon cher, dear Pug, she cries, adieu ;
You smile to see me, who the world perchance
The least delight of which I'll not forego, Then who the devil would give this to be free
A TRIAL OF THE POETS FOR THE In mere good breeding, like unfavory wind.
IN IMITATION OF A SATYR IN BOJLEAU.
INCE the sons of the Muses grew numeres In all I write, should sense, and wit, and rhyme, Fail me at once, yet something so sublime
For th' appeasing so fa&tious and clamorous i Shall stamp my poem, that the world may see,
croud, It could have been prodąc'd by none but me. Apollo thought for, in so weighty a cause, And that's my end; for man can wih no more T'establish a government, leader, and laws. Than fo to write, as none e'cr writ before; The hopes of the bays, at the summoning call, Yet why am I no poet of the times?
Had drawn them together, the Devil and all; I have allusions, Emiles, and rhymes,
All thronging and listening, they gap'd for t! And wit; or else 'tis hard that I alone,
blcfung : of the whole race of mankind, should have none No presbyter sermon had more crowding and pd Unequally the partial hand of heaven
sing: Has all but this one only blessing given.
In the head of the gang, John Dryden appear'! The world appears like a great family,
That ancient grave wit so long lov'd and fear'd, Whose lord, oppress'd with pride and poverty, But Apollo had heard a fory in town, (That to a few great bounty he may show) of his quiteing the Muses, to wear the bike Is fain to farve the numerous train below.
gown; Just fo seems Providence, as poor and vain, And so gave him leave now his poetry's done, Keeping more creatures than it can maintain: To let him turn priest since R is turn'd Dec Here 'tis profuse, and there it meanly faves, This revèrend author was no sooner fet hy, And for one prince, it makes ten thousand Laves. But Apollo had gnt gentle Georget in his eye, In wit alone 't has been magnificent,
And frankly confess'd, of all men that writ, of which so just a fare to each is sent,
There's none had more fancy, sense, judgment, a:! That the most avaricious are content.
wit : For none e'er thought (the due division's such) But in th' crying fin, idleness, he was so harder's His own too little, or his friend's too much.
That, his long feven years silence was not to be Yet most men show, or find, great want of wit,
pardon'd. Writing themselves, or judging what is writ.
-y i was the next man shew d his face, But I, who am of sprightly vigour full,
But Apollo e'en thought him too good for i Look on mankind as envious and dull.''
place; Born to myself, I like myself alone,
No gentleman writer that office fuould bear, And must conclude my judgment good, or none : But a trader in wit the laurel should wear, For could my sense be naught, how should I know As none but a Cit-e'er makes a Lord-Mayer. Whether another man's were good or no ?
Next into the crowd, Tom Shadwell does wa? Thus I resolve of my own poetry,
And swears by his guts, his paupch, and his taila That 'tis the best ; and there's a fame for me. That 'tis he alone best pleases the age, If then I'm happy, what does it advance, Himself and his wife have supported the stage : Whether to merit due, or arrogance ?
Apollo, well pleas'd with so bonny a lad, Oh, but the world will take offence hereby!
T'oblige him, he told him, he should be hugo! Why then the world fall lufser for’t, not I.
glad, Did e'er this saucy world and I agree,
Had he half so much wit, as he fancy'd he had To let it have its beastly will on me?
Nat Lee stepp'd in next, in hopes of a prize, Why should my prostituted sense be drawn, Apollo remember'd he had hit once in thrice; To every rule their inusly customs spawn? By the subics in’s face, he could not deny, But men may censure you ; 'tis two to one, But he had as much wit as wine could suppls; Whene'er they censure, they'll be in the wrong. There's not a thing on earth, that I can name; So foolish, and so false, as common fame.
* See “ The Sesion of the Poets,” in the ** It calls the courtier knave, the plain-man rude, Poems, vol. I. and “ The Election of the pe Haughty the grave, and the delightful lewd, Laurcat, 1719," in Sheffield Duke of Bucbis Impertinent the brisk, morose the fad,
ham's Works. Mean the familiar, the reserv'd-one mad.
+ Sir George Ethercge. Poor helpless woman is not favour'd more,
Mr. Wycherley, She's a Ny hypocrite, or public whore,