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Behold Corinna pale - the jealous wife!
Her spouse, good easy man! she makes a drone,
Demure he sits, his eyes are not his own!
Speaks he unguarded of another's charms?
A mistress ! quick her soul is up

in arms.
She raves, she sighs, the tears obedient start,
And well she plays the loud virago's part.
How long, Corinna, to conviction blind,
Wilt thou torment thyself, and all mankind,
With jealous fancies, with suppos'd neglects ?
-She most deserves suspicion, who suspects.

Prudella, cautious nymph! behind her fan, Gives many an artful leer at odious Man; With paint and patches tries, a silly crime ! To hide the fearful ravages of time. When in the Park she takes her night parade, We ask, what spectre 'tis that haunts the shade. She sings an air-the connoisseur that hears, Would swear a jack were winding in his ears; She joins the dance-the graces in a fume, Behold the hideous sprite, and quit the room.

Chloe, whom perjur'd wits engaging call,
Is pleas'd with half mankind, and pleases all.
She goes to church on ev'ry Sabbath day,
But fashionable people never pray!
If parsons are polite, 'tis very well,

But Chloe can't endure the name of hell.
If some fond fool confess a tender smart,
She smiles encouragement, then breaks his heart.
Beware how Chloe's kindnesses beguile,
Her frown is not so fatal as her smile.

Poor Sappho, forc'd to wed against her will The man she hates; and, more provoking still, A thing that ev'ry woman hates alive, A toothless, doting rogue of sixty-five ! At midnight balls, and masquerades is seen, And fashionable routs, to cure the spleen; Her ancient lord, a martyr For Sappho calls in vain-my lady's out! Stung with the pangs of jealousy, he swears, Sappho returns, and wonders at his airs ; To prove her faith, calls Betty, and the saints, And if occasion suit, my lady faints.

the gout,

But who is she, that sits with head awry, Lank is her form, and haggard is her eye, Her garments turn'd in many a mazy fold, Frantic she seems and ghastly to behold? 'Tis sad Calista, who, with brandish'd quill, Makes ghosts appear, and vampires rise, at will; She writes for demons', not for man's applause, And is herself the fury that she draws.

“ High life is charming, say what people will !"
Cries Mistress Fustian, hot from Holborn Hill;
“0, who would breathe this vulgar city air,
When honest folks might drive a coach and pair ?
My spouse, dull soul! would rather grub the while,
Than sport a handsome house, and live in style."
By fortune's freaks see Madam Fustian plac'd
High in the realms of elegance and taste;
A well-bred dame, she leaves her bed at noon,
Sups with the sun, and breakfasts with the moon!
At balls and concerts the presiding belle,
For who indeed can dance or sing so well ?
At fashion's fane she rules the varying year,
For who will dress so gay,

and
Ah! must I tell the sequel of the tale?
Poor Madam Fustian's purse begins to fail !
The house is sold, the servants all dismiss'd,
Her luckless husband dreads the bailiff's fist;
Such mad presumption all her friends deride,
Guests at her routs, and sharers of her pride!
And Mistress Fustian, much against her will,
Returns to breathe the air of Holborn Hill!

pay so dear?

Why sits Clarinda in her garb of woe?
Her spouse, sweet mourner! died a week ago;
Frantic with grief, she sent for Lady D,
Implor’d her tears, and company to tea.

For six long days, a penance truly hard !
She never saw a play, nor touch'd a card;
The seventh, the woeful widow (custom pleads !)
Puts off her sorrow, and puts on her weeds.

My Lady Cynthia oft, of gaming sick, Will lose her charming temper, with a trick. Nubilia wears a patch, contriving belle! To hide a speck; a mask would do as well. How Flavia’s face, and Flavia's picture strike; The cause is plain, they're painted much alike! () then shall truth the voice of satire hush? Fair virtue's true complexion is a blush !

But one I know, sweet subject of my lays, Whose beauty still is only second praise ; In action graceful, as in sense refin'd, The softest manners, with the chastest mind: Uniting all that we design to please, The charms of temper, elegance, and ease; A fond expression, never reach'd by art, Which speaks the glowing language of the heart !

Charms such as these, nor deem the picture rare, Shall render beauty more divinely fair. When man's warm passions, with resistless sway, Bear virtue, truth, and reason far away ;

One soft persuasive smile shall soon reprove,
And call him back to liberty and love.

Dear Stella, to my moral verse attend, Forgive the censor, and believe the friend. May ev'ry bliss that softens life, or cheers, Charm thy young days, and crown thy riper years ! Fair is the prospect in life's op'ning morn, The rose is fair, but still retains the thorn! The world will tempt thee with alluring praise, And Folly lead thee to her fairy maze, But 0, beware! and shun the dang'rous way, They flatter beauty only to betray; And still through life, in thy desire to please, Retain thy soft simplicity and ease. To charm by art let others vainly seek, What art can reach the blossom on thy cheek? And while through life's uncertain path we stray, Hope for our guide to lead us on the way, Say, shall the Muse thy gentle steps attend, Pleas'd to become thy monitor and friend? To tell thee oft how thousands are undone, What paths to follow, and what ills to shun; That vice, though late, shall meet severest doom, That virtue lives and blossoms in the tomb.

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