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Offend her, and she knows not to forgive;

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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 follow'rs! without one distress
Sick of herself through very selfishness!
Atossa, curs'd with ev'ry 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 wand'ring touches, some reflected light,
Some flying stroke alone can hit 'em right:
For how could equal colours do the knack?
Cameleons who can paint in white and black?
"Yet Cloe sure was form'd without a spot.".

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150

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Nature in her then err'd not, but forgot.

"With ev'ry pleasing, ev'ry prudent part,

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"Say, what can Cloe want?"-She wants a heart.

After Ver. 148 in the MS.

This death decides, nor lets the blessing fall
On any one she hates, but on them all.

Curs'd chance! this only could afflict her more,
If any part should wander to the poor.

She

She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought;
But never, never, reach'd one gen'rous 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,

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Can mark the figures on an Indian chest :

And when she sees her friend in deep despair,

Observes how much a chintz exceeds mohair.

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Forbid it, Heav'n, a favour or a debt

She e'er should cancel!-but she may forget.

Safe is your secret still in Cloe's ear;

But none of Cloe's shall you ever hear.

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Of all her dears she never slander'd one,
But cares not if a thousand are undone.
Would Cloe know if you're alive or dead?
She bids her footman put it in her head.
Cloe is prudent-Would you too be wise?
Then never break your heart when Cloe dies.
One certain portrait may (I grant) be seen,
Which Heav'n has varnish'd out, and made a Queen :
THE SAME FOR EVER! and describ❜d by all
With truth and goodness, as with crown and ball.

180

Poets

VER. 180. when Cloe dies.] This highly-finished portrait was intended for Lady Suffolk, with whom, at the time he wrote it, he lived in a state of intimacy.

Poets heap virtues, painters gems at will,

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And shew 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:
Th' exactest traits of body or of mind,
We owe to models of an humble kind.

190

If QUEENSBERRY to strip there's no compelling, 'Tis from a handmaid we must take a Helen.

From peer or bishop 'tis no easy thing

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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 :

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Our bolder talents in full light display'd;
Your virtues open fairest in the shade.

After Ver. 198. in the MS.

Fain I'd in Fulvia spy the tender wife;
I cannot prove it on her, for my life:
And, for a noble pride, I blush no less,
Instead of Berenice to think on Bess.
Thus while immortal Cibber only sings

(As* and H**y preach) for Queens and Kings,
The nymph, that ne'er read Milton's mighty line,

May, if she love, and merit verse, have mine.

Bred

VER. 198, Mah'met, servant to the late King, said to be the son of a Turkish Bassa, whom he took at the siege of Buda, and constantly kept about his person.

VER. 198. plain Parson Hale.] Dr. Stephen Hale; not more estimable for his useful discoveries as a natural philosopher, than for his exemplary life and pastoral charity as a parish priest.

Bred to disguise, in public 'tis you hide;

There, none distinguish 'twixt your shame or pride, Weakness or delicacy; all so nice,

That each may seem a virtue, or a vice.

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210

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 pleasure, and the love of sway.
That, nature gives; and where the lesson taught
Is but 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 ev'ry woman is at heart a rake:
Men, some to quiet, some to public strife ;
But ev'ry 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
Yet hate repose, and dread to be alone,

VER. 207. in the first edition,.

In sev'ral men, we sev'ral passions find;
In women, two almost divide the kind.

!

grown,

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Worn

Worn out in public, 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,

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To covet flying, and regret when lost :

At last, to follies youth could scarce defend,
It 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:
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 frolics, 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!

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245

Ah! friend! to dazzle let the vain design;

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To raise the thought, and touch the heart, be thine!

That charm shall grow, while what fatigues the ring, Flaunts and goes down, an unregarded 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.

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