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He games; he swears; he drinks; he fights; he roves;
Yet Chloe can believe he fondly loves.
Mistrefs and wife can well supply his needs.
A miss for pleasure, and a wife for breeda
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 she can bear.

Why are these fobs ? and why these streaming eyes ?
Is love the cause? no, I the sex despise ;
I hate, I loath his base perfidious name.
Yet if he should but feign a rival flame ?
But Chloe boasts 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 steady hand the bears.
How well this ribband's gloss becomes your

She cries, in raptures ; then, so sweet a lace!
How charmingly you look ! so bright ! fo fair!
'Tis to your eyes the head-dress owes its air.
Straight Lydia (mild ; the comb adjusts her locks,
And at the play-house Harry keeps her box.

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DORIS AND MELANTHE. SAINT AINT James's noon-day bell for prayers had tolla,

And coaches to the patron's levee rolld, When Doris rose. 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 sooner gave than sunk a circumstance ; Lock'd in her memory, secrets never dy’d. Doris begun : Melanthe thus reply'd.

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Sylvia the vain fantastic Fop admires ;
The Rake's loose gallantry her bosom fires;
Sylvia like that is vain, like this she roves;
In liking them, she but herself



Laura rails on at men, the fex reviles,
Their vice condemns, or at their folly smiles,
Why fhould her tongue in juft resentment fail,
Since men at her with equal freedom rail?


Last Masquerade was Sylvia nymph-like seen,
Her hand a crook sustain'd, her dress was green;
An amorous shepherd led her through the crowd,
The nymph was innocent, the shepherd vow'd ;
But nymphs their innocence with shepherds trust;
So both withdrew, as nymph and shepherd must.

Name but the licence of the modern stage,
Laura takes fire, and kindles into rage ;
The whining tragic love she scarce can bear,
But nauseous comedy ne'er shock'd her ear;
Yet, in the gallery mobb’d, she fits secure,
And laughs at jests that turn the box demure.


Trust not, ye Ladies, to your beauty's power,
For beauty withers like a shriveld flower ;
Yet those fair flowers, that Sylvia's temples bind,
Fade not with sudden blights or winter's wind;
Like those, her face defies the rolling years ;
For art her rofes and her charms repairs.

Laura despises every outward grace,
The wanton sparkling eye, the blooming face ;
The beauties of the soul are all her pride,
For other beauties Nature has deny'd ;
If affectation shew a beauteous mind,
Lives there a man to Laura's merits blind?


Sylvia be sure defies the town's reproach,
Whose dishabille is foil'd in hackney, coach ;
What though the fath was clos'd, muft we conclude,
That she was yielding, when her fop was rude ?

Laura learnt caution at too dear a cost.
What Fair could e'er retrieve her honour lost?
Secret she loves; and who the nymph-can blame,
Who durft not own a footman's vulgar ffame?


Though Laura's homely taste descends fo low;
Her footman well may vie with Sylvia's beau.

Yet why should Laura think it a difgrace,
When proud Miranda's groom wears Flanders lace :


What though for musick Cynthio boasts an car?
Robin perhaps can hum an Opera air.
Cynthio can bow, takes snuff, and dances well;
Robin talks common-sense, can write and spell.
Sylvia's vain fancy dress and show admires ;
But 'tis the man alone whom Laura fires.

Plato's wise morals Laura's soul improve :
And this no doubt must be Platonic love !
Her soul to generous acts was still inclin'd:
What shews more virtue than an humble mind?



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What though young Sylvia love the park's cool thade,
And wander in the dusk the secret glade?
Masqu’d and alone (by chance) llie mer her fpark ;
That innocence is weak which shuns 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 curst
With scandal's double load, who censure firft.


And what if Cynthio Sylvia's garter tyd ?
Who such a foot and such a leg would hide ;
When crook-knee'd Phyllis can expofe to view
Her gold-clock'd stocking, and her tawdry shoe?


pure Devotion center in the face,
If censuring others few intrinsic grace,
If guilt to public freedoms be confin'd,
Prudes (all must own) are of the holy kind t


Sylvia disdains referve, and flies constraint :
She neither is, nor would be thought, a Saint

Love is a trivial passion, Laura cries :
May I be blest with friendship's stricter ries!
To fuch a breast all secrets we commend;
Sure the whole Drawing-room is Laura's friend.

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