Your art with so much art to hide, That nothing of it be descried;

To make your careless tresses flow
With so much air, that none should know
Whether they had been comb'd or no.
But, in this so neglected hair,
Many a heart has found its snare.
Nature indeed has kindly sent
Us many things; more we invent:
Little enough, as I may say,

To keep our beauty from decay.
As leaves that with fierce winds engage,
Our curling tresses fall with age.
But then by German herbs we find
Colour, for locks to grey inclin'd.
Sometimes we purchase hair; and why?
Is not all that our own we buy?
You buy it publicly, say they:
Why tell us that, when we don't pay.
Of French pomades the town is full:
Praise Heaven, no want of Spanish wool!
Let them look flusht, let them look dead,
That can't afford the white and red.
In Covent Garden you buy posies,
There we our lilies and our roses.
Who would a charming eye-brow lack,
Who can get any thing that's black?
Let not these boxes open lie:
Some folks are too much given to pry.
Art not dissembled would disgrace
The purchas'd beauties of our face:
This if such persons should discover,
"Twould rather lose than gain a lover.
Who is there now but understands
Searcloths to flea the face or hands?
Though the idea 's not so taking,
And the skin seems but odd in making,
Yet, when 'twill with fresh lustre shine,
Her spark will tell you 'tis divine.
That picture there your eye does strike;
It is the work of great Van Dyck,
Which by a Roman would be sainted:
What was 't but canvas till 'twas painted?
There's several things should not be known:
O'er these there is a curtain drawn,
Till 'tis their season to be shown,
Your door on fit occasions keep

Fast shut: who knows but you're asleep?.
When our teeth, colour, hair, and eyes,
And what else at the toilet lies,
Are all put on, we 're said to rise.

"There was a lady whom I knew,
That must be nameless, 'cause 'tis true,
Who had the dismalest mischance
I've heard of since I was in France:
I do protest, the thoughts of it
Have almost put me in a fit.
Old lady Meanwell's chamber-door,
Just on the stairs of the first floor,
Stood open: and pray who should come,
But Knowall, flouncing in the room?
No single hair upon her head:

I thought she would have fell down dead.
At last she found a cap of hair,
Which she put on with such an air,
That every lock was out of place,
And all hung dangling down her face.
I would not mortify one so,
Except some twenty that I know.

Her carelessness and her defect
Were laid to mistress Prue's neglect;
And much ill-nature was betray'd,

By noise and scolding with the maid.
"The young look on such things as stuff,
Thinking their bloom has art enough.
When, smooth, we matter it not at all;
'Tis when the Thames is rough, we squall,
But, whate'er 'tis may be pretended,
No face or shape but may be mended.
All have our faults, and must abide them,
We therefore should take care to hide them.
You're short; sit still, you'll taller seem:
You're only shorter from the stem.

By looser garb your leanness is conceal'd;
By want of stays the grosser shape's reveal'd.
The more the blemishes upon the feet,
The greater care the lace and shoes be neat.
Some backs and sides are wav'd like billows:
These holes are best made up with pillows.
Thick fingers always should command
Without the stretching out the hand.
Who has bad teeth should never see
A play, unless a tragedy:

For we can teach you how to simper,
And when 'tis proper you should whimper.
Think that your grace and wit is now
Not in your laughing at a thing, but how.
Let room for something more than breath,
Just show the ends of milk-white teeth.
There is a je n' scai quoi is found
In a soft smooth affected sound:
But there's a shrieking crying tone,
Which I ne'er lik'd, when all is done:
And there are some, who laugh like men,
As ne'er to shut their mouths again;
So very loud and mal-propos,
They seem like hautboys to a show.
But now for the reverse: 'tis skill
To let your tears flow when you will.
It is of use when people die;
Or else to have the spleen, and cry,
Because you have no reason why.

"Now for your talk-come, let me see:
Here lose your H, here drop your T;
Despise that R: your speech is better
Much for destroying of one letter.
Now lisp, and have a sort of pride
To seem as if your tongue were tied:
This is such a becoming fault,
Rather than want, it should be taught.
"And now that you have learnt to talk,
Pray let me see if you can walk.
There's many dancing-masters treat
Of management of ladies feet.

There's some their mincing gait have chose,
Treading without their heel or toes.
She that reads Tasso, or Malherbe 9,
Chooses a step that is superbe.
Some giddy creatures, as if shunning
Something dislik'd, are always running.
Some prance like French women, who ride,
As our life-guard-men, all astride.

9 By the manner in which Tasso and Malherbe are mentioned by Dr. King, they seem not to have been the most fashionable authors of that age. Our author has translated what he calls An Incomparable Ode of Malherbe, N.

But each of these have decoration
According to their affectation.

That dance is graceful, and will please,
Where all the motions glide with ease.
We to the skilful theatre

This seeming want of art prefer.

"Tis no small art to give direction
How to suit knots to each complexion,
How to adorn the breast and head,
With blue, white, cherry, pink, or red.
As the morn rises, so that day
Wear purple, sky-colour, or grey:
Your black at Lent, your green in May;
Your filamot when leaves decay.
All colours in the summer shine:

The nymphs should be like gardens fine.
"It is the fashion now-a-days,
That almost every lady plays.
Basset and piquet grow to be
The subject of our comedy:
But whether we diversion seek
In these, in comet, or in gleek,
Or ombre, where true judgment can
Disclose the sentiments of man;
Let's have a care how we discover,
Especially before a lover,

Some passions which we should conceal,
But heats of play too oft' reveal;
For, be the matter small or great,
There's like abhorrence for a cheat.
There's nothing spoils a woman's graces
Like peevishness and making faces :
Then angry words and rude discourse,
You may be sure, become them worse,
With hopes of gain when we 're beset,
We do too commonly forget

Such guards, as screen us from those eyes
Which may observe us, and despise.
I'd burn the cards, rather than know
Of any of my friends did so:

I've heard of some such things; but I,
Thanks to my stars, was never by.

"Thus we may pass our time: the men
A thousand ways divert their spleen,
Whilst we sit peevishly within;
Hunting, cocking, racing, joking,
Fuddling, swimming, fencing, smoking;
And little thinking how poor we
Must vent our scandal o'er our tea.
I see no reason but we may
Be brisk, and equally as gay.
Whene'er our gentlemen would range,
We'll take our chariot for the 'Change:
If they're disposing for the play,
We'll hasten to the Opera:
Or when they 'Il lustily carouse,
We'll surely to the Indian house:
And at such cost whilst thus we roam,
For cheapness sake they'll stay at home.
Few wise men's thoughts e'er yet pursued
That which their eyes had never view'd:
And so our never being seen

Is the same thing as not t' have been.
Grandeur itself and poverty
Were equal if no witness by:
And they who always sing alone

Can ne'er be prais'd by more than one.
Had Danae been shut up still,
She'd been a maid against her will,

And might have grown prodigious old, And never had her story told. 'Tis fit fair maids should run a-gadding, To set the amorous beaux a-madding. To many a sheep the wolf has gone Ere it can neatly seize on one; And many a partridge scapes away Before the hawk can pounce its prey: And so, if pretty damsels rove, They'll find out one perhaps may love; If they no diligence will spare, And in their dressing still take care. The fisher baits his book all night, In hopes by chance some eel may bite. Each with their different grace appears, Virgins with blush, widows with tears, Which gain new husbands tender-hearted, To think how such a couple parted. But then there are some foppish beaux Like us in all things but their clothes; That we may seem the more robust, And fittest to accost them first: With powder, paint, false locks, and hair, They give themselves a female air; Who, having all their tale by rote, And harping still on the same note, Will tell us that, and nothing more Than what a thousand heard before. Though they all marks of love pretend, There's nothing which they less intend: And, 'midst a thousand hideous oaths, With jewels false and borrow'd clothes, Our easiness may give belief

To one that is an errant thief."

The spark was coming; she, undrest,
Scuttles away as if possest.
The governess cries, "Where d'ye run?"
Why, madam, I've but just begun."
She bawls; the other nothing hears,
But leaves her prattling to the chairs.
Virtue, without these little arts,
At first subdues, then keeps, our hearts:
And though more gracefully it shows
When it from lovely persons flows;
Yet often goodness most prevails/
When beauty in perfection fails.
Though every feature mayn't be well,
Yet all together may excel.

There's nothing but will easy prove,
When all the rest 's made up by love.

PART XIII.

VIRGINS should not unskill'd in music be;
For what's more like themselves than harmony?
Let not Vice use it only to betray,

As Syrens by their songs entice their prey.
Let it with sense, with voice, and beauty join,
Grateful to eyes and ear, and to the mind divine:
For there's a double grace when pleasing strings
Are touch'd by her that more delightful sings.
Thus Orpheus did the rage of deserts quel,
And charm'd the monstrous instruments of Hell.
New walls to Thebes Amphion thus began,
Whilst to the work officious marble ran.
Thus with his harp and voice Arion rode
On the mute fish safe through the rolling flood.
Nor are the essays of the female wit
Less charming in the verses they have writ.

From ancient ages, love has found the way
Its bashful thoughts by letters to convey;
Which sometimes run in such engaging strain,
That pity makes the fair write back again.
What's thus intended, some small time delay:
His passion strengthens rather by our stay.
Then with a cautious wit your pen withhold,
Lest a too free expression make him bold.
Create a mixture 'twixt his hope and fear,
And in reproof let tenderness appear.
As he deserves it give him hopes of life:
A cruel mistress makes a froward wife.
Affect not foreign words: love will impart
A gentle style more excellent than art.
Astrea's' lines flow on with so much ease,
That she who writes like them must surely please.
Orinda's works, with courtly graces stor'd,
True sense in nice expressions will afford:
Whilst Chudleigh's words seraphic thoughts ex-
In lofty grandeur, but without excess.
Oh, had not Beauty parts enough to wound,
But it must pierce us with poetic sound;
Whilst Phoebus suffers female powers to tear
Wreaths from his Daphne, which they justly wear!
If greater things to lesser we compare,
The skill of love is like the art of war.
The general says, "Let him the horse command:
You by that ensign, you that cannon stand:
Where danger calls, let t'other bring supplies."
With pleasure all obey, in hopes to rise.
So, if you have a servant skill'd in laws,
Send him with moving speech to plead your cause.
He that has native unaffected voice,
In singing what you bid him, will rejoice.
And wealth, as Beauty orders it, bestow'd,
Would make ev'n misers in expenses proud.

[press

A name assumed by Mrs. Aphra Behn, a lady well known in the gay and poetical world in the licentious reign of king Charles II. She was authoress of seventeen plays, two volumes of novels, several translations, and many poems. N. 2 The poetical name of Mrs. Catharine Philips. She was the daughter of John Fowler, merchant, and born in London 1631; was married to James Philips, of the Priory of Cardigan, esq. about the year 1647; and died in Fleet-street, in the month of June 1664. Her poems have been several times printed. She was also the writer of a volume of letters, published many years after her death, to sir Charles Cotterel, entitled, Letters from Orinda to Poliarchus; which have been admired. Mrs. Philips was as much famed for her friendship, as for her poetry; and had the good fortune to be equally esteemed by the best poet and the best divine of h r age. Dr. Jeremy Taylor addressed his discourse on the Nature and Effects of Friendship to this lady; and Mr. Cowley has celebrated her memory, in an elegant ode preserved amongst his works. N.

3 This lady was daughter to Richard Lee, of Winslade, in the county of Devon, esq. She was born in the year 1656; became the wife of sir George Chudleigh, of Ashton, in the same county, bart.; and died Dec. 15, 1710. Her poems were twice printed in her lifetime in one volume 8vo. the second edition in 1709. She also published a volume of essays upon several subjects in prose and verse, 1710. N.

First see how Sidney, then how Cowley mov'd, And with what art it was that Waller lov'd. Forget not Dorset, in whose generous mind Love, sense, wit, honour, every grace combin'd; And if for me you one kind wish would spare, Answer a poet to his friendly prayer. Take Stepney's verse, with candour ever blest; For love will there still with his ashes rest. There let warm spice and fragrant odours burn, And everlasting sweets perfume his urn.

Not that the living Muse is to be scorn'd: Britain with equal worth is still adorn'd. See Halifax, where sense and honour mixt Upon the merits just reward have fixt: And read their works, who, writing in his praise, To their own verse immortal laurels raise. Learn Prior's lines; for they can teach you more Than sacred Ben, or Spenser, did before: And mark him well that uncouth physic's art Can in the softest tune of wit impart. See Pastorella o'er Florello's grave, See Tamerlane make Bajazet his slave; And Phædra with her ancient vigour rave. Through Rapin's nurseries and gardens walk, And find how nymphs transform'd by amorous colours talk.