Why pique all mortals, yet affect a name?
A fool to pleasure, yet a slave to fame:
Now deep in Taylor and the Book of Martyrs, Now drinking citron with his grace and Chartres:
Now Conscience chills her, and now Passion burns;And Atheism and Religion take their turns;A very heathen in the carnal part, Yet still a sad, good Christian at her heart.
What then? let blood and body bear the fault, Her head's untouched, that noble seat of thought:
Such this day's doctrine--in another fit She sins with poets through pure love of wit.
What has not fired her bosom or her brain?
Caesar and Tall-boy, Charles and Charlemagne.
As Helluo, late dictator of the feast, The nose of Hautgout, and the tip of taste, Critic'd your wine, and analysed your meat, Yet on plain pudding deigned at home to eat;So Philomede, lecturing all mankind On the soft passion, and the taste refined, The address, the delicacy--stoops at once, And makes her hearty meal upon a dunce.
Flavia's a wit, has too much sense to pray;To toast our wants and wishes, is her way;Nor asks of God, but of her stars, to give The mighty blessing, "while we live, to live."Then all for death, that opiate of the soul!
Lucretia's dagger, Rosamonda's bowl.
Say, what can cause such impotence of mind?
A spark too fickle, or a spouse too kind.
Wise wretch! with pleasures too refined to please;With too much spirit to be e'er at ease;
With too much quickness ever to be taught;With too much thinking to have common thought:
You purchase pain with all that joy can give, And die of nothing but a rage to live.
Turn then from wits; and look on Simo's mate, No ass so meek, no ass so obstinate.
Or her, that owns her faults, but never mends, Because she's honest, and the best of friends.
Or her, whose life the Church and scandal share, For ever in a passion, or a prayer.
Or her, who laughs at hell, but (like her Grace)Cries, "Ah! how charming, if there's no such place!"Or who in sweet vicissitude appears Of mirth and opium, ratafie 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.
But what are these to great Atossa's mind?
Scarce once herself, by turns all womankind!
Who, with herself, or others, from her birth Finds all her life one warfare upon earth:
Shines in exposing knaves, and painting fools, Yet is, whate'er she hates and ridicules.
No thought advances, but her eddy brain Whisks it about, and down it goes again.
Full sixty years the world has been her trade, The wisest fool much time has ever made From loveless youth to unrespected age, No passion gratified except her rage.
So much the fury still outran the wit, The pleasure missed her, and the scandal hit.
Who breaks with her, provokes revenge from hell, But he's a bolder man who dares be well.
Her every turn with violence pursued, Nor more a storm her hate than gratitude:
To that each passion turns, or soon or late;Love, if it makes her yield, must make her hate:
Superiors? death! and equals? what a curse!
But an inferior not dependent? worse.
Offend her, and she knows not to forgive;Oblige her, and she'll hate you while you live:
But die, and she'll adore you--then the bust And temple rise--then fall again to dust.
Last night, her lord was all that's good and great;A knave this morning, and his will a cheat.
Strange! by the means defeated of the ends, By spirit robbed of power, by warmth of friend By wealth of followers! without one distress Sick of herself through very selfishness!
Atossa, cursed with every granted prayer, Childless with all her children, wants an heir.
To heirs unknown descends the unguarded store, Or wanders, Heaven-directed, to the poor.
Pictures like these, dear madam, to design, Asks no firm hand, and no unerring line;Some wandering touches, some reflected light, Some flying stroke alone can hit 'em right:
For how should equal colours do the knack?
Chameleons who can paint in white and black?
"Yet Chloe sure was formed without a spot"--Nature in her then erred not, but forgot.
"With every pleasing, every prudent part, Say, what can Chloe want?"--She wants a heart.
She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought;But never, never, reached one generous thought.
Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour, Content to dwell in decencies for ever.
So very reasonable, so unmoved, As never yet to love, or to be loved.
She, while her lover pants upon her breast, Can mark the figures on an Indian chest;And when she sees her friend in deep despair, Observes how much a chintz exceeds mohair.
Forbid it, Heaven, a favour or a debt She e'er should cancel--but she may forget.
Safe is your secret still in Chloe's ear;But none of Chloe's shall you ever hear.
Of all her dears she never slandered one, But cares not if a thousand are undone.
Would Chloe know if you're alive or dead?
She bids her footman put it in her head.
Chloe is prudent--would you too be wise?
Then never break your heart when Chloe dies.
One certain portrait may (I grant) be seen, Which Heaven has varnished out, and made a QUEEN.
The same for ever! and described by all With truth and goodness, as with crown and ball.
Poets heap virtues, painters gems at will, And show their zeal, and hide their want of skill.
'Tis well--but, artists! who can paint or write, To draw the naked is your true delight.
That robe of quality so struts and swells, None see what parts of nature it conceals:
The exactest traits of body or of mind, We owe to models of an humble kind.
If Queensbury to strip there's no compelling, 'Tis from a handmaid we must take a Helen, From peer or bishop 'tis no easy thing To draw the man who loves his God or king:
Alas! I copy (or my draught would fail)
From honest Mah'met, or plain Parson Hale.
But grant in public men sometimes are shown, A woman's seen in private life alone:
Our bolder talents in full light displayed;Your virtues open fairest in the shade.
