He games; he fwears; he drinks; he fights; he roves;
Yet Chloe can believe he fondly loves.
Miftrefs and wife can well fupply his need
A mifs for pleasure, and a wife for breed.
But Chloe's air is unconfin'd and gay,
And can perhaps an injur'd bed repay;
Perhaps her patient temper can behold
The rival of her love adorn'd with gold,
Powder'd with diamonds; free from thought and care,
A husband's fullen humours fhe can bear.
Why are thefe fobs? and why these streaming eyes?
Is love the caufe? no, I the fex despise;
I hate, I loath his base perfidious name.
Yet if he should but feign a rival flame?
But Chloe boafts and triumphs in my pains;
To her he's faithful, 'tis to me he feigns.
Thus love-fick Lydia ray'd. Her maid appears;
A band-box in her fteady hand the bears.
How well this ribband's glofs becomes your face ▸
She cries, in raptures; then, fo sweet a lace!
How charmingly you look! fo bright fo fair!
"Tis to your eyes the head-drefs owes its air.
Straight Lydia fmil'd; the comb adjusts her locks,
And at the play-house Harry keeps her box.
DORIS AND MELANTHE.
AINT James's noon-day bell for prayers had toll'd,
And coaches to the patron's levee roll'd,
When Doris rofe. And now through all the room
From flowery Tea exhales a fragrant fume.
Cup after cup they fipt, and talk'd by fits,
For Doris here, and there Melanthe fits.
Doris was young, a laughter-loving dame,
Nice of her own alike and others' fame :
Melanthe's tongue could well a tale advance,
And fooner gave than funk a circumstance;
Lock'd in her memory, fecrets never dy'd.
Doris begun Melanthe thus reply'd.
Sylvia the vain fantastic Fop admires;
The Rake's loofe gallantry her bosom fires;
Sylvia like that is vain, like this fhe roves;
In liking them, fhe but herself approves.
Laura rails on at men, the fex reviles,
Their vice condemns, or at their folly fmiles,
Why fhould her tongue in juft refentment fail,
Since men at her with equal freedom rail?
Laft Mafquerade was Sylvia nymph-like feen,
Her hand a crook fuftain'd, her dress was green;
An amorous fhepherd led her through the crowd,
The nymph was innocent, the fhepherd vow'd;
But nymphs their innocence with fhepherds truft;
So both withdrew, as nymph and fhepherd muft.
Name but the licence of the modern stage,
Laura takes fire, and kindles into rage;
The whining tragic love the fcarce can bear,
But naufeous comedy ne'er fhock'd her ear;
Yet, in the gallery mobb'd, fhe fits fecure,
And laughs at jests that turn the box demure.
Truft not, ye Ladies, to your beauty's power,
For beauty withers like a fhrivel'd flower;
Yet thofe fair flowers, that Sylvia's temples bind,
Fade not with fudden blights or winter's wind;
Like thofe, her face defies the rolling years;
For art her rofes and her charms repairs.
Laura defpifes every outward grace,
The wanton fparkling eye, the blooming face;
The beauties of the foul are all her pride,
For other beauties Nature has deny'd;
If affectation fhew a beauteous mind,
Lives there a man to Laura's merits blind?
Sylvia be fure defies the town's reproach,
Whose dishabille is foil'd in hackney coach;
What though the fash was clos'd, must we conclude,
That the was yielding, when her fop was rude?
Laura learnt caution at too dear a cost.
What Fair could e'er retrieve her honour loft
Secret fhe loves; and who the nymph can blame,
Who durft not own a footman's vulgar flame?
Though Laura's homely tafte descends fo low;
Her footman well may vie with Sylvia's beau.
Yet why fhould Laura think it a difgrace,
When proud Miranda's groom wears Flanders lace?
What though for musick Cynthio boasts an ear?
Robin perhaps can hum an Opera air.
Cynthio can bow, takes fnuff, and dances well;
Robin talks common-sense, can write and spell.
Sylvia's vain fancy drefs and fhow admires;
But 'tis the man alone whom Laura fires.
Plato's wife morals Laura's foul improve :
And this no doubt must be Platonic love!
Her foul to generous acts was ftill inclin'd
What fhews more virtue than an humble mind?
What though young Sylvia love the park's cool fhade, And wander in the dusk the fecret glade?
Mafqu'd and alone (by chance) fhe met her fpark; That innocence is weak which fhuns the dark.
But Laura for her flame has no pretence;
Her footman is a footman too in fenfe.
All prudes I hate; and thofe are rightly curft
With fcandal's double load, who cenfure firft.
And what if Cynthio Sylvia's garter ty'd?
Who fuch a foot and fuch a leg would hide;
When crook-knee'd Phyllis can expofe to view
Her gold-clock'd stocking, and her tawdry fhoe?
If pure Devotion center in the face,
If cenfuring others fhew intrinfic grace,
If guilt to public freedoms be confin'd,
Prudes (all must own) are of the holy kind
Sylvia difdains referve, and flies constraint:
She neither is, nor would be thought, a Saint
MELANTHE..
Love is a trivial paffion, Laura cries:
May I be bleft with friendship's stricter ties !
To fuch a breaft all fecrets we commend;
Sure the whole Drawing-room is Laura's friend.
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