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Some god or spirit he has lately found,
Judge we by nature ? habit can efface,
Manners with fortunes, humours turn with climes, Tenets with books, and principles with times.
SEARCH then the ruling passion; there, alone,
The wild are constant, and the cunning known; The fool consistent and the false sincere ; Priests, princes, women, no dissemblers here. This clue once found unravels all the rest, The prospect clears, and Wharton stands confest. Wharton ! the scorn and wonder of our days, Whose ruling passion was the lust of praise ; Born with whate'er could win it from the wise, Women and fools must like him, or he dies; Though wondering senates hung on all he spoke, The club must hail him master of the joke. Shall parts so various aim at nothing new ? He'll shine a Tully and a Wilmot too : Then turns repentant, and his God adores With the same spirit that he drinks and whores; Enough if all around him but admire, And now the punk applaud, and now the friar, Thus with each gift of Nature and of Art, And wanting nothing but an honest heart; Grown all to all, from no one vice exempt, And most contemptible to shun contempt ; His passion still to covet general praise, His life to forfeit it a thousand ways; A constant bounty which no friend has made An angel tongue, which no man can persuade ;
A fool, with more of wit than half mankind,
Nature well known no prodigies remain,
Yet in this search the wisest may mistake,
In this one passion man can strength enjoy,
Old politicians chew on wisdom past,
Behold a reverend sire, whom want of grace
A salmon's belly, Helluo, was thy fate; The doctor call'd, declares all help too late :
“ Mercy !" cries Helluo,“ mercy on my soul ! “ Is there no hope ?--Alas!-then bring the jowl.”
The frugal Crone, whom praying priests attend, Still strives to save the hallow'd taper's end, Collects her breath, as ebbing life retires, For one puff more, and in that puff expires..
“ Odious ! in woollen! 'twould a saint provoke, (Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke !) No, let a charming chintz and Brussels lace Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face: One would not, sure, be frightful when one's deadAnd-Betty-give this cheek a little red."
The courtier smooth, who forty years had shin'd An humble servant to all human kind, Just brought out this,when scarce histongue could stir, “ If-where I'm going I could serve you, Sir y
“ I give and I devise (old Eucho said, And sigh'd) my lands and tenements to Ned.” “ Your money, Sir ?"_" My money, Sir! what all? Why-if I must-(then wept) I give it Paul!" " The manor, Sir ?"_" The manor ! hold," he cry'd; “ Not that-I cannot part with that"--and dy'd.
And you, brave Cobham! to the latest breath Shall feel your ruling passion strong in death; Such in those moments as in all the past, “Q! save my country, Heav'n !" shall be your last.
To a Lady.
That the particular characters of women are not so strongly
marked as those of men, seldom so fixed, and still more inconsistent with themselves. Instances of contrarieties, given even from such characters as are most strongly marked, and seemingly, therefore, most consistent; as,
1. In the affected.---2. In the soft-natured.---3. In the cunning and artful.-4. In the whimsical.-5. In the lewd and vicious.-6. In the witty and refined.-7. Ia the stupid and simple. The former part having shewn that the particular characters of women are more various than those of men, it is nevertheless observed, that the general characteristic of the sex, as to the ruling passion, is more uniform. This is occasioned partly by their nature, partly by their education, and in some degree by necessity. What are the aims and the fate of this sex -1. As to power.-9. As to pleasure. Advice for their true interest. The picture of an estimable woman with the best kind of contrarieties.
NOTHING so true as what
you once let fall, “ Most women have no characters at all :"> Matter too soft a lasting mark to bear, And best distinguish'd by black, brown, or fair.
How many pictures of one nymph we view, All how unlike each other, all how true! Arcadia's Countess here, in ermin'd pride, Is there Pastora by a fountain side: Here Fannia, leering on her own good man, And there, a naked Leda with a swan. Let then the tair-ope beautifully cry, lo Magdalene's loose bair and lifted eye, Or dress'd in smiles of sweet Cecilia shine, With simpering angels, palms, and harps divine ; Whether the charmer sinner it or saint it, If folly grow romantic I must paint it.
Come then, the colours and the ground prepare! Dip in the rainbow, trick her off in air ;
Chuse a firm cloud before it fall, and in it
Rufa, whose eye quick glancing o'er the Park,
How soft is Silia ! fearful to offend;
Papillia, wedded to her amorous spark,
Ladies like variegated tulips show ;
Narcissa's nature, tolerable mild,