The Courtier smooth, who forty years had shin'd An humble servant to all human-kind, Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue could "If---where I'm going---I could serve you, sir?" "I give and I devise (old Euclio 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 cried,) Not that---I cannot part with that"---and died. 261 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, "Oh! save my country, Heav'n!" shall be your last.
OF THE CHARACTERS OF WOMEN.
That the particular characters of women are not so strongly marked as those of men, seldom so fix'd, and still more inconsistent with themselves, v. 1, &c. Instances of contrarieties, given even from such characters as are strongly marked, and seemingly, therefore, most consistent: as, 1. In the affected, . 21. &c. 2. In the soft natured, v. 29, and 37. 3. In the cunning and artful, v. 45. 4. In the whimsical, v. 53. 5. In the lewd and vicious, .69. 6. In the witty and refined, v. 87. 7. In the stupid and simple, 2. 101. The former part having shewn that the particular characters of women are more various than those of inen, it is nevertheless observed, that the general characteristic of the sex, as to the ruling passion, is more uniform, v. 207. This is occasioned partly by their nature, partly by their education, and in some degree by necessity, v. 211. What are the aims and the fate of this sex ---1. As to power, . 219. 2. As to pleasure, v. 231. Advice for their true interest, . 249. The picture of an estimable woman, with the best kind of contrarieties, v. 269.
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 fair one beautifully cry,
In Magdalen's loose hair and lifted eye;
Or dress'd in smiles of sweet Cecilia shine,
With sin.pering 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,
Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of this minute. 20
Rufa, whose eye quick-glancing o'er the Park
Attracts each light gay meteor of a spark,
Agrees as ill with Rufa studying Locke,
As Sappho's diamonds with her dirty smock;
Or Sappho at her toilette's greasy task,
With Sappho fragrant at an evening mask:
So morning insects, that in muck begun,
Shine, buzz, and fly-blow in the setting sun.
How soft is Silia! fearful to offend;
The frail one's advocate, the weak one's friend; 30 To her Calista prov'd her conduct nice,
And good Simplicius asks of her advice.
Sudden she storms! she raves you tip the wink;
But spare your censure; Silia does not drink.
eyes may see from what the change arose;
All eyes may see-a pimple on her nose.
Papillia, wedded to her amorous spark,
Sighs for the shades--" How charming is a park!"
A park is purchas'd; but the fair he sees
All bath'd in tears—“ Oh, odious, odious trees!" 40
Ladies, like variegated tulips show;
'Tis to their changes half the charms we owe:
Fine by defect, and delicately weak,
Their happy spots the nice admirer take.
'Twas thus Calypso once each heart alarm❜d,
Aw'd without virtue, without beauty charm'd;
Her tongue bewitch'd as oddly as her eyes;
Less wit than mimic, more a wit than wise:
Strange graces still, and stranger flights, she had :
Was just not ugly, and was just not mad;
Yet ne'er so sure our passion to create
As when she touch'd the brink of all we hate.
Narcissa's nature, tolerably mild,
To make a wash would hardly stew a child,
Has ev'n been prov'd to grant a lover's pray'r;
And paid a tradesman once to make him stare;
Gave alms at Easter in a Christian trim,
And made a widow happy for a whim.
Why then declare good-nature is her scorn,
When 'tis by that alone she can be borne?
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.
See sin in state, majestically drunk,
Proud as a peeress, prouder as a punk:
Chaste to her husband, frank to all beside;
A teeming mistress, but a barren bride.
What then? let blood and body bear the fault,
Her head's untouch'd, 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 fir'd her bosom or her brain?
Cæsar and Tallboy, Charles and Charlemagne.
As Helluo, late dictator of the feast,
The nose of haut-goût, and the tip of taste,
Critiqu'd your wine, and analyz'd your meat,
Yet on plain pudding deign'd at home to eat;
So Philomedé, lecturing all mankind
On the soft passion, and the taste refin'd,
Th' 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 refin'd 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, 105 For ever in a passion or a pray'r:
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, ratifie and tears,
The daily anodyne and nightly draught,
To kill those foes to fair ones, time and thought.
Woman and fool are too 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 miss'd 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 robb'd of pow'r, by warmth of friends,
By wealth of followers! without one distress,
Sick of herself through very selfishness!
Atossa, curs'd with every granted pray'r.
Childless with all her children, wants an heir;
To heirs unknown descends th' unguarded store,
Or wanders, Heav'n-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 them right: For how should equal colours do the knack? Cameleons who can paint in white and black? "Yet Chloe sure was form'd without a spot."Nature in her then err'd 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, 161 But never, never, reach'd one generous thought. Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour, Content to dwell in decencies for ever. So very reasonable, so unmov'd, As never yet to love or to be lov'd. She, while her lover pants upon her breast, Can mark the figures on an Indian chest;
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