With these alone her tedious mornings pass
Or at the dumb devotion of her glass
She smooths her brow, and frizzles forth her hairs,
And fancies youthful dress gives youthful airs:
With crimson wool she fixes ev'ry grace,
That not a blush can discompose her face.
Reclin'd upon her arm she pensive sate,
And curs'd th' inconstancy of youth too late.
O youth; O spring of life! for ever lost!
No more my name shall reign the fav'rite toast;
On glass no more the di'mond grave my name,
And rhymes mispell'd record a lover's fl .me:
Nor shall side-boxes watch my restless eyes,
And, as they catch the glance, in rows arise
With humble bows; nor white-glov'd beaus encroach,
In crowds behind to guard me to my coach.
Ah! hapless nymph! such conquests are no more,
For Chloe's now what Lydia was before!
'Tis true this Chloe boasts the peach's bloom;
But does her nearer whisper breathe perfume?
I own her taper shape is form'd to please;
Yet if you saw her unconfin'd by stays,
She doubly to fifteen may make pretence;
Alike we read it in her face and sense.
Her reputation! but that never yet
Could check the freedoms of a young coquette.
Why will ye then, vain Fops! her eyes believe?
Her eyes can, like your perjur'd tongues, deceive.
What shall I do? how spend the hateful day?
At chape! shall I wear the morn away?
Who there frequents at these unmodish hours,
But ancient matrons with their frizzl'd tow'rs,
And gray religious maids? my presence there,
Amid that sober train, would own despair:
Nor am I yet so old, nor is my glance,
As yet, fix'd wholly to Devotion's trance.
Straight then I'll dress, and take my wonted range Thro' ev'ry Indian shop thro' all the Change; Where the tall jar erects his costly pride, With antic shapes in China's azure dy'd; There careless lies the rich brocade unroll'd, Here shines a cabinet with burnish'd gold; But then rememb'rance will my grief renew, 'Twas there the raffling dice false Damon threw; The raffling dice to him decide the prize : 'Twas there he first convers'd with Chloe's eyes; Hence sprung th' ill-fated cause of all my smart, To me the toy he gave, to her his heart; But soon thy perj'ry in the gift was found, The shiver'd China dropp'd upon the ground, Sure omen that thy vows would faithless prove; Frail was thy present, frailer is thy love.
O happy Poll, in wiry prison pent,
Thou ne'er hast known what Ive or rivals meant; And Pug with pleasure can his fetters bear,
Who ne'er believ'd the vows that lovers swear. 70
How am I curst! (unhappy and forlorn)
With perjury, with love, and rivals' scorn!
False are the loose coquette's inveigling heirs,
False is the pompous grief of youthful heirs,
False is the cringing courtier's plighted word,
False are the dice, when gamesters stamp the board,
False is the sprightly widow's public tear,
Yet these to Damon's oaths are all sincere.
Fly from prefidious man, the sex disdain,
Let servile Chloe wear the nuptial chain.
Damon is practis'd in the modish life,
Can hate, and yet be civil to a wife.
He games, he swears, he drinks, he fights, he roves,
Yet Chloe can believe he fondly loves.
Mistress and wife can well supply his need,
A miss for pleasure, and a wife for breed.
But Chloe's air is unconfin'd and gay,
And can perhaps an injur'd bed repay;
Perhaps her patient temper can behold
The rival of her love adorn'd with gold:
Powder'd with di'monds, free from thought and care,
A husband's sullen humour she can bear.
Why are these sobs? and why these streaming eyes? Is love the cause? No, I the sex despise: I hate, I loath his base perfidious name: Yet if he should but feign a rival flame? But Chloe boasts and triumphs in my pains, To her he's faithful, 'tis to me he feigns.
This love-sick Lydia rav'd. Her maid appears;
A band-box in her steady hand she bears.
How well this ribband's gloss becomes your face!
She cries, in raptures; then, so sweet a lace!
How charmingly you look! so bright! so fair!
'Tis to your eyes the head-dress owes its air.
Straight Lydia smil'd; the comb adjusts her locks,
And at the play-house Harry keeps her box.
THE TEA-TABLE.
A TOWN Eclogue.
SAINT James's noon-day bell for pray'rs had toll'd,
And coaches to the patron's levee roll'd,
Wheir Doris rose: and now thro' all the room,
From flow'ry tea, exhales a fragrant fume.
Cup after cup they sipt, and talk'd by fits,
For Doris here, and there Melanthe sits.
Doris was young, a laughter-loving dame,
Nice of her own alike and others' fame:
Melanthe's tongue could well a tale advance,
And sooner gave than sunk a circumstance:
Lock'd in her mem'ry secrets never dy'd;
Doris begun, Melanthe thus reply'd.
DORIS. Sylvia the vain fantastic fop admires,
The rake's loose gallantry her bosom fires.
Sylvia like that is vain, like this she roves,
In liking them she but herself approves.
MELAN. Laura rails on at men, the sex reviles,
Their voice condemns, or at their folly smiles:
Why should her tongue in just resentment fail,
Since men at her with equal freedom rail?
DORIS. Last masquerade was Sylvia nymph-like seen,
Her hand a crook sustain'd, her dress was green;
An am'rous shepherd led her thro' the crowd;
The nymph was innocent, the shepherd vow'd;
But nymphs their innocence with shepherds trust,
So both withdrew, as nymph and shepherd must.
MELAN. Name but the license of the modern stage,
Laura takes fire, and kindles into rage;
The whining tragic love she scarce can bear,
But nauseous comedy ne'er shock'd her ear;
Yet in the gall'ry mobb'd, she sits secure,
And laughs at jests that turn the box demure.
DORIS. Trust not, ye Ladies! to your beauty's pow'r,
For beauty withers like a shrivell'd flow'r;
Yet those fair flow'rs that Sylvia's temples bind
Fade not with sudden blights or winter's wind;
Like those her face defies the rolling years,
For Art her roses and her charms repairs.
MELAN. Laura despises ev'ry outward grace,
The wanton sparkling eye, the blooming face;
The beauties of the soul are all her pride,
For other beauties Nature has deny'd;
Volume 11.
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