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Or her who laughs at Hell, but (like her Grace)
Cries, oh how charming if there's no such place!
Or who in sweet vicissitude appears
Of mirth and opium, ratifie and tears,
The daily anodyne, and nightly draught,
To kill those foes to fair ones, Time and Thought.
Woman and fool are two hard things to hit,
For true no-meaning puzzles more than wit.

Pictures like these, (dear madam) to design,
Asks no firm hand, and no unerring line ;
Some wand'ring touches, some reflected light,
Some flying stroke alone can hit them right;
For how should equal colours do the knack,
Cameleons who can paint in white and black !

In publick stations men sometimes are shown,
A woman's seen in private life alone :
Our bolder talents in full view display'd,
Your virtues open fairest in the shade.
Bred to disguise, in publick 'tis you hide ;
Where none distinguish 'twixt your shame or pride,
Weakness or delicacy; all so nice,
Each is a sort of virtue, and of vice.

In men, we various ruling passions find,
In women, two almost divide the kind;
Those only fix'd, they first or last obey;
The love of pleasures, and the love of sway.

That, Nature gives ; and where the lesson taught
Is still to please, can pleasure seem a fault ?
Experience, this : by man's oppression curst,
They seek the second not to lose the first.

Men, some to bus'ness, some to pleasure take,
But every woman is, at heart a rake :
Men, some to quiet, some to publick strife,
But every lady would be queen for life.

Yet mark the fate of a whole sex of queens !
Pow'r all their end, but beauty all the means.
In youth they conquer, with so wild a rage,
As leaves them scarce a subject in their age :
For foreign glory, foreign joy, they roam ;
No thought of peace or happiness at home.
But wisdom's triumph is well tim'd retreat,
As hard a science to the fair as great!
Beauties like tyrants, old and friendless grown,
Yet hate repose, and dread to be alone :
Worn out in publick, weary ev'ry eye,
Nor leave one sigh behind them when they die.

Pleasures the sex, as children birds, pursue,
Still out of reach, yet never out of view,
Sure, if they catch, to spoil the toy at most,
To cover flying, and regret when lost.
At last, to follies youth could scarce defend,

grows their age's prudence to pretend :
Asham'd to own they gave delight before,
Reduc'd to feign it, when they give no more :
As hags hold Sabbaths, less for joy than spight,
So these their merry miserable night;

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Still round and round the ghosts of beauty glide,
And haunt the places where their honour dy'd.

See how the world its veterans rewards !
A youth of frolicks, an old age of cards,
Fair to no purpose, artful to no end,
Young without lovers, old without a friend,
A fop their passion, but their prize a sot,
Alive, ridiculous, and dead forgot!

Ah friend ! to dazzle let the vain design,
To raise the thought and touch the heart, be thine !
That charm shall grow, while what fatigues the ring
Flaunts and goes down, an unreguarded thing.
So when the sun's broad beam has tir'd the sight,
All mild ascends the moon's more sober light,
Serene in virgin modesty she shines,
And unobserv'd the glaring orb declines.

Oh! blest with temper, whose unclouded ray
Can make to morrow chearful as to day ;
She, who can love a sister's charms, or hear
Sighs for a daughter with unwounded ear ;
Who never answers till a husband cools,
Or, if she rules him, never shows she rules ;
Charms by accepting, by submitting sways,
Yet has her humour most, when she obeys ;
Lets fops or fortune fly which way they will ;
Disdains all loss of tickets, or codille ;
Spleen, vapours, or small-pox, above them all,
And mistress of herself, tho' China fall.

And yet believe me, good as well as ill,
Woman's at best a contradiction still.
Heav'n, when it strives to polish all it can
Its last, best work, but forms a softer man ;
Picks from each sex, to make the fav'rite blest,
Your love of pleasure, our desire of rest,
Blends, in exception to all gen’ral rules,
Your taste of follies, with our scorn of fools.
Reserve with frankness, art with truth ally'd,
Courage with softness, modesty with pride,
Fix'd principles, with fancy ever new ;
Shakes all together, and produces- -you.

Ev'n such is woman's fame : with this un-blest,
Toasts live a scorn, and queens may die a jest.
This Phoebus promis'd, (I forget the year,)
When those blue eyes first open'd on the sphere ;
Ascendant Phæbus watch'd that hour with care,
Averted half your parent's simple pray'r.
And gave you beauty, but deny'd the pelf
That buys your sex a tyrant o'er itself:
The gen'rous god, who wit and gold refines,
And ripens spirits as he ripens mines,
Kept dross for duchesses, the world shall know it,
To you gave sense, good-humour, and a poet.

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VOL. III. - POETRY.

L L

EPISTLE III.

OF THE USE OF RICHES.

TO ALLEN LORD BATHURST.

The true use of riches known to few, most falling into one of the extremes. avarice, or profusion. Ver. 1, &c. The point discuss'd whether the invention of money was more commodious or pernicious to mankind, 21 to 28. Riches can scarce afford necessaries either to the avaritious or prodigal, much less any happiness, 81, &c. It is never for their ow, families, :r for the poor, that misers covet wealth, but a direct pbrensy without an end or purpose, 100. Conjectures, about the motives of avaritious men, to 152. That it can only be accounted for by the order of Providence, which works general good out of extremes, and brings all to its great end by perpetual revolutions, 153 to 178. A picture of a miser acting upon principles which appear to him reasonable, 179. Another of a prodigal acting on the contrary principles which seem to him equalle right, 199. The due medium and true use of riches, 219 to 248. The character and praises of the Man of Ross, 250. The fate of the covetous, and of the profuse, in two examples, 298 and 315. That bosh are miserable, in life and in death. The tale of Sir Balaam, the degrees of corruption by riches, and the consequences, 339, &c.

EPISTLE III.

TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD BATHURST.

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Who shall decide, when doctors disagree,
And soundest casnists doubt, like you and me?
You hold the word, from Jove to Momus giv'n,
That man was made the standing jest of heav'n,
And gold but sent to keep the fools in play,
For half to heap, and half to throw away.

But I, who think more highly of our kind,
(And surely Heav'n and I are of a mind)
Opine, that Nature, as in duty bound,
Deep hid the shining mischief under ground :
But when, by man's audacious labour won,
Flam'd forth this rival to its sire the Sun,
Then, in plain prose, were made two sorts of men,
To squander some, and some to hide agen.

Like doctors thus, when much dispute has past,
We find our tenets just the same at last :
Both fairly owning, riches in effect
No grace of heav'n, or token of th' elect ;
Gir'n to the fool, the mad, the vain, the evil,
To Ward, to Waters, Chartres, and the Devil.
What Nature wants, commodious gold bestows,
'Tis thus we eat the broad another sows :
But how unequal it bestows, obserre,
'Tis thus we riot, while who sow it, starve.

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What Nature wants (a phrase I much distrust)
Extends to luxury, extends to lust;
And if we count among the needs of life
Another's toil, why not another's wife ?
Useful, we grant, it serves what life requires,
But dreadful too, the dark assassin hires :
Trade it may help, society extend ;
But lures the pyrate, and corrupts the friend :
It raises armies in a nation's aid,
But bribes a senate, and the land's betray'd.

Oh! that such bulky bribes as all might see
Still, as of old, encumber'd villany!
In zain may heroes fight, and patriots rave,
If secret gold saps on from knave to knave.
Could France or Rome divert our brave designs,
With all their brandies, or with all their wines ?
What could they more than knights and squires confound,
Or water all the Quorum ten miles round?
A statesman's slumbers how this speech would spoil ?
“Sir, Spain has sent a thousand jars of oyl :

Huge bales of British cloath blockade the door ; A hundred oxen at your levee roar."

Poor Avarice one torment more would find,
Nor could Profusion squander all, in kind.
Astride his cheese Sir Morgan might we meet,
And Worldly crying coals from street to street,
(Whom with a wig so wild, and mien so maz'd,
Pity mistakes for some poor tradesman craz'd)
Had Colepeper's whole wealth been hops and hogs,
Could he himself bave sent it to the dogs ?
His Grace will game: to White's a bull be led,
With spuming heels, and with a butting head :
To White's be carry'd, as to ancient games,
Fair coursers, vases, and alluring dames.
Shall then Uxorio if the stakes he sweep,
Bear home six whores, and make his lady weep!
Or soft Adonis, so perfum'd and fine,
Drive to St. James's a whole herd of swine !
Oh filthy check on all industrious skill,
To spoil the nation's last great trade, quadrille !

Once, we confess, beneath the patriot's cloak,
From the crack'd bag the dropping guinea spoke,
And gingling down the back-stairs, told the crew,
“Old Cato is as great a rogue as you."
Blest paper-credit ! that advanc'd so high,
Now lends corruption lighter wings to fly!
Gold, imp'd with this, can compass hardest things,
Can pocket States, or fetch or carry kings ;
A single leaf can waft an army o’er,
Or ship off senates to some distant shore ;
A leaf like Sybil's, scatter to and fro
Our fates and fortunes as the winds shall blow ;
Pregnant with thousands flits the scrap unseen,
And silent sells a king, or buys a queen.

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Well then, since with the world we stand or fall,
Come take it as we find it, gold and all.

What riches give us, let us first enquire ;
Meat, fire, and cloaths. What more? meat, cloaths, and fire,
Is this too little ? wou'd you more than live!
· Alas ! 'tis more than 'Turner finds they give.
Alas 'tis more than (all his visions past)
Unhappy Wharton, waking, found at last !
What can they give ? to dying Hopkins heirs ?
To Chartres vigour, Japhet, nose and ears?
('an they in gems bid pallid Hippia glow,
In Fulvia's buckle ease the throbs below!
Or heal, old Narses, thy obscener ail,
With all th' embroid'ry plaister'd at thy tail ?
They might, (were Harpax not too wise to spend)
Give Harpax self the blessing of a friend ;
Or find some doctor that would save the life
Of wretched Shylock, spite of Shylock's wife :
But thousands die, without or this or that,
Die, and endow a college, or a cat :
To some indeed heav'n grants the happier fate
T enrich a bastard, or a son they hate.

Perhaps you think the poor might have their part ?
Bond damns the poor, and hates them from his heart :
The grave Sir Gilbert holds it for a rule,
That “ev'ry man in want is knave or fool :"
“God cannot love (says Blunt, with lifted eyes)
“The wretch he starves" and piously denies;
But rev'rend s-on with a softer air,
Admits, and leaves them, Providence's care.

Yet, to be just to these poor men of pelf,
Each does but hate his neighbour as himself :
Damn'd to the mines, an equal fate betides,
The slave that digs it, and the slave that hides.
Who suffer thus, meer charity should own
Must act on motives pow'rful tho' unknown :
Some war, some plague, some famine they foresee,
Some revelation, hid from you and me.
Why Shylock wants a meal, the cause is found,
He thinks a loaf will rise to fifty pound.
What made directors cheat in South-sea year ?
To live on ven'son when it sold so dear.
Ask you why Phryne the whole auction buys?
Phryne foresees a General Excise.
Why she and Sapho raise that monstrous sum ?
Alas! they fear a man will cost a plum.

Wise Peter sees the world's respect for gold,
And therefore hopes this nation may be sold :
Glorious ambition ! Peter, swell thy store,
And be what Rome's great Didius was before.

The Crown of Poland, venal twice an age, To just three millions stinted modest Gage. But nobler scenes Maria's dreams unfold, Hereditary realms, and worlds of gold,

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