Be fure avoid fet phrafes, when you write;
The ufual way of fpeech is more polite.
How have I feen the puzzled lover vex'd,
To read a letter with hard words perplex'd!
A ftyle too coarfe takes from a handsome face,
And makes us with an uglier in its place.

But fince (though chastity be not your care),
You from your husband still would hide th' affair,
Write to no stranger till his truth be try'd,
Nor in a foolish meffenger confide.
What agonies that woman undergoes,
Whofe hand the traitor threatens to expose;
Who, rafhly trufting, dreads to be deceiv'd,
And lives for ever to that dread enflav'd!
Such treachery can never be surpass'd,
For thofe difcoveries fure as lightning blast.
Might I advife, fraud fhould with fraud be paid;
Let arms repel all who with arms invade.

But fince your letters may be brought to light,
What if in several hands you learn'd to write!
My curfe on him who first the fex betray'd,
And this advice fo neceffary made.

Nor let your pocket-book two hands contain,
First rub your lover's out, then write again.
Still one contrivance more remains behind,
Which you may ufe as a convenient blind;
As if to women writ, your letters frame,
And let your friend to you subscribe a female name.
Now greater things to tell, my Mufe prepare,
And clap on all the fail the bark can bear.
Let no rude paffions in your looks find place;
For fury will deform the finest face:
It fwells the lips, and blackens all the veins,
While in the eye a Gorgon horror reigns.

When on her flute divine Minerva play'd,
And in a fountain faw the change it made,
Swelling her cheek; the flung it quite afide:

Nor is thy mufic fo much worth," the cry'd.
Look in your glafs when you with anger glow,
And you'll confefs, you scarce yourselves can know.
• Nor with exceffive pride infult the fight,
For gentle looks, alone, to love invite.
Believe it as a truth that's daily try'd,
There's nothing more deteftable than pride.
How have I feen fome airs difguft create,
Like things which by antipathy we hate!

Let looks with looks, and smiles with smiles, be paid,
And when your lover bows, incline your head.
So Love preluding, plays at first with hearts,
And after wounds with deeper-piercing darts.
Nor me a melancholy mistress charms;
Let fad Tecmeffa weep in Ajax' arms.
Let mourning beauties fullen heroes move,
We cheerful men like gaiety in love.
Let Hector in Andromache delight,
Who, in bewailing Troy, waftes all the night.
Had they not both borne children (to be plain),
I ne'er could think they'd with their husbands lain.
I no idea in my mind can frame,

That either one or t'other doleful dame
Could toy, could fondle, or could call their lords
"My life, my foul;" or speak endearing words.
Why from comparisons should I refrain,
Or fear fmall things by greater to explain?

Obferve what conduct prudent generals ufe,
And how their several officers they choose;
To one a charge of infantry commit,
Another for the horse is thought more fit.
So you your feveral lovers fhould felect,
And, as you find them qualified, direct.
The wealthy lover ftore of gold should fend;
The lawyer fhould, in courts, your caufe de fend.
We, who write verse, with verfe alone should bribe;
Moft apt to love is all the tuneful tribe.

By us, your fame shall through the world be blaz'd;
So Nemefis, fo Cynthia's name was rais'd.
From east to west, Lycoris' praises ring;
Nor are Corinna's filent, whom we fing.
No fraud the poet's facred breaft can bear;
Mild are his manners, and his heart fincere:
Nor wealth he seeks, nor feels ambition's fires,
But fhuns the bar; and books and shades requires.
Too faithfully, alas! we know to love,
With eafe we fix, but we with. pain remove;
Our fofter studies with our fouls combine,
And both to tenderness our hearts incline.
Be gentle, virgins, to the Poet's prayer,
The God that fills him, and the Muse revere;
Something divine is in us, and from heaven
Th' infpiring fpirit can alone can be given.
'Tis fin, a price from poets to exact;

But 'tis a fin no woman fears to act.
Yet hide, howe'er, your avarice from fight,
Left you too foon your new admirer fright.

As fkilful riders rein with different force,

A new-back'd courfer, and a well-train'd horse;
Do you, by different management, engage
The man in years, and youth of greener age.
This, while the wiles of love are yet unknown,

Will gladly cleave to you, and you alone:
With kind careffes oft indulge the boy,
And all the harveft of his heat enjoy.
Alone, thus blefs'd, of rivals most beware;
Nor love nor empire can a rival bear.
Men more difcreetly love, when more mature,
And many things, which youth disdains, endure:
No windows break, nor houses set on fire,
Nor tear their own, or mistress's attire.
In youth, the boiling blood gives fury vent,
But men in years more calmly wongs refent.
As wood when green, or as a torch when wet,
They flowly burn, but long retain their heat.
More bright is youthful flame, but fooner dies;
Then fwiftly feize the joy that swiftly flies.

Thus all betraying to the beauteous foe,
How furely to enflave ourselves we show!
To truft a traitor, you'll no fcruple make,
Who is a traitor only for your fake..

Who yields too foon, will foon her lover lofe ; Would you retain him long, then long refuse. Oft at your door make him for entrance wait, There let him lie, and threaten and intreat. When cloy'd with fweets, bitters the taste restore; Ships, by fair winds, are fometimes run afhore. Hence fprings the coldness of a marry'd life, The husband, when he pleases, has his wife. Bar but your gate, and let your porter cry, "Here's no admittance, Sir; I must deny."

The tamarifks with thick-leav'd box are found,
And cytifus and garden-pines abound:
While through the boughs foft winds of Zephyr pass,
Tremble the leaves, and tender tops of grass.
Hither would Cephalus retreat to rest,
When tir'd with hunting, or with heat oppreft;
And thus to Air the panting youth would pray,

Come, gentle Aura, come, this heat allay.'
But fome tale-bearing, too officious friend,
By chance o'erheard him, as he thus complain'd;
Who with the news to Procris quick repair'd,
Repeating word for word what he had heard.
Soon as the name of Aura reach'd her ears,
With jealoufy furpris'd, and fainting fears,
Her rofy colour fled her lovely face,
And agonies, like death, fupply'd the place:
Pale fhe appear'd as are the falling leaves,
When firft the vine the winter's blast receives.
Of ripen'd quinces, fuch the yellow hue,
Or, when unr pe, we cornel-berries view.
Reviving from her fwoon, her robes the tore,
Nor her own faultlefs face to wound forbore.
Now all dishevell'd, to the wood fhe flies,
With Bacchanalian fury in her eyes.
Thither arriv'd, the leaves below her friends,'
And all alone the fhady hill afcends.
What folly, Procris, o'er thy mind prevail'd?
What rage thus fatally to lie conceal'd?
Whoe'er this Aura be (fuch was thy thought),
She now fhall in the very fact be caught.
Anon, thy heart repents its rash designs,
And now to go, and now to stay inclines:
Thus love with doubts perplexes (till thy mind,
And makes thee feek what thou must dread to find.
But ftill thy rival's name rings in thy ears,
And more fufpicious ftill the place appears;
But more than all, exceffive love deceives,
Which all it fears, too eafily believes.

And now a chilnefs runs through every vein, Soon as the faw where Cephalus had lain. 'Twas noon, when he again retir'd, to fhun The fcorching ardour of the mid-day fun: With water first he fprinkled o'er his face, Which glow'd with heat, then fought his ufual place. Procris, with anxious, but with filent care, View'd him extended, with his bofom bare; And heard him foon th' accuftom'd words repeat, Come, Zephyr; Aura, come: allay this heat:" Soon as the found her error, from the word, Her colour and her temper were restor'd. With joy the rofe to clafp him in her arms, But Cephalus, the ruftling noise alarms; Some beatt he thinks he in the bushes hears, And trait his arrows and his bow prepares.

Hold, hold, unhappy youth!"-I call in vain, With thy own hand thou halt thy Procris flain. Me, me (the cries) thou'it wounded with thy dart! But Cephalus was wont to wound this heart. "Yet lighter on my afhes earth will lie,

Since, though untimely, I unrival'd die : "Come, clofe with thy dear hand my eyes in death, "Jealous of Air, to Air I yield my breath." Clofe to his heavy heart her cheek he laid, And wash'd, with ftreaming tears, the wound he made; At length the fprings of life their currents leave, And her laft gaf her husband's lips receive.

Now, to purfue our voyage we provide, Till fafe to port our weary bark we guide.

You may expect, perhaps, I now fhould teach
What rules to treats and entertainments reach.
Come not the firft, invited to a feast;
Rather come laft, as a more grateful gueft.
For that, of which we fear to be depriv'd,
Meets with the fureft welcome when arriv'd.
Befides, complexions of a coarser kind
From candle-light no small advantage find.
During the time you eat obferve some grace,
Nor let your unwip'd hands besmear your face;
Nor yet too fqueamishly your meat avoid,
Left we fufpect you were in private cloy`d.
Of all extremes in either kind beware,
And ftill before your belly's full forbear.
No glutton-nymph, however fair, can wound,
Though more than Helen fhe in charm: abound.
I own, I think, of wine the moderate use
More fuits the fex, and fooner finds excufe ;
It warms the blood, adds luftre to the eyes,
And wine and love have always been allies.
But carefully from all intemperance keep,
Nor drink till you fee double, lifp, or fleep.
For in fuch fleeps brutalities are done,

Which, tho' you loathe, you have no power to fhun.
And now th' inftructed nymph from table led,
Should next be taught how to behave in bed.
But modesty forbids: nor more, my Muse
With weary wings the labour'd flight pursues;
Her purple (wans unyok'd the chariot leave,
And needful reft (their journey done) receive.
Thus, with impartial care, my art I show,
And equal arms on either fex beftow:
While men and maids, who by my rules improve,
Ovid muft own their mafter is in love.

OF PLEASING.

AN EPISTLE то

SIR RICHARD TEMPLE.

"TIS ftrange, dear Temple, how it comes to pass,
That no one man is pleas'd with what he has.
So Horace fings and fure as ftrange is this,
That no one man's difpleas'd with what he is.
The foolish, ugly, dull, impertinent,

Are with their perfons and their parts content.
Nor is that all, fo odd a thing is man,

He most would be what least he should or can.
Hence, homely faces ftill are foremost seen,
And cross-fhap'd fops affect the niceft mien;
Cowards extol true courage to the fkies,
And fools are still most forward to advise;
Th' untrusted wretch to fecrefy pretends,
Whispering his nothing round to all as friends.
Dull rogues affect the politician's part,
And learn to nod, and fmile, and shrug with art.
Who nothing has to lofe, the war bewails,
And he who nothing pays, at taxes rails.
Thus man perverfe against plain nature strives
And to be artfully abfurd contrives.

Plautus will dance, Lufcus at ogling aims,
Old Tritus keeps, and undone Probus games.
Noifome Curculio, whofe envenom'd breath,
Though at a distance utter'd, threatens death,
Full in your teeth his ftinking whifper throws;
Nor mends his manners, tho you hold your nose.
Therfites, who feems born to give offence,
From uncouth form, and frontless impudence,
Affumes soft airs, and with a flur comes in,
Attempts a fmile, and fhocks you with a grin.
Raucus harangues with a diffuafive grace,
And Helluo invites with a forbidding face.

Nature to each allots his proper fphere,
But, that forfaken, we like comets err :
Tofs'd thro' the void, by fome rude shock we're broke,
And all her boafted fire is loft in smoke.

Next to obtaining wealth, or power, or ease,
Men most affect in general to please ;
Of this affection vanity's the fource,
And vanity alone obftructs its courfe;
That telescope of fools, through which they spy
Merit remote, and think the object nigh.
The glass remov'd, would each himself survey,
And in juft fcales his ftrength and weakness weigh,
Pursue the path for which he was defign'd,
And to his proper force adapt his mind;
Scarce one but to fome merit might pretend,
Perhaps might please, at least would not offend.
Who would reprove us while he makes us laugh,
Must be no Bavius, but a Bickerstaff.

If Garth, or Blackmore, friendly potions give,
We bid the dying patient drink and live:
When Murus comes, we cry, "Beware the pill;"
And with the tradesman were a tradesman ftill.
If Addifon, or Rowe, or Prior write,

We study them with profit and delight:
But when vile Macer and Mundungus rhyme,

We grieve we've learnt to read, ay, curfe the time.
All rules of pleafing in this one unite,
"Affect not any thing in Nature's fpite."
Baboons and apes ridiculous we find ;

For what? For ill-refembling human-kind.
"None are, for being what they are, in fault,
"But for not being what they would be thought."

Thus I, dear friend, to you my thoughts impart, As to one perfect in the pleafing art; If art it may be call'd in you, who seem By Nature form'd for love, and for esteem. Affecting none, all virtues you poffefs, And really are what others but profess. I'll not offend you, while myfelf I pleafe; I loathe to flatter, though I love to praife. But when fuch early worth fo bright appears, And antedates the fame which waits on years; I can't fo ftupidly affected prove, Not to confefs it in the man I love. Though now I air not at that known applaufe You've won in arms, and in your country's caufe; Nor patriot now, nor hero I commend, But the companion praife, and boaft the friend.

But you may think, and fume, lefs partial, say That I prefume too much in this effay. How should I fhow what pleafes? How explain A rule, to which I never could attain ? To this objection I'll make no reply, But tell a tale, which, after, we'll apply,

I have read, or heard, a learned perfon once (Concern'd to find his only fon a dunce) Compos'd a book in favour of the lad, Whofe memory, it seems, was very bad. This work contain'd a world of wholefome rules, To help the frailty of forgetful fools. The careful parent laid the treatife by, Till time should make it proper to apply. Simon, at length, the look'd-for age attains, To read and profit by his father's pains; And now the fire prepares the book t' impart, Which was yclept, Of Memory the Art. But ah! how oft is human care in vain! For, now he could not find his book again. The place where he had laid it he forgot, Nor could himself remember what he wrote. Now to apply the story that I tell, Which, if not true, is yet invented well. Such is my cafe: like most of theirs who teach; I ill may practise what I well may preach. Myfelf not trying, or not turn'd to please, May lay the line, and measure out the ways. The Mulcibers, who in the Minories sweat, And maffive bars on stubborn anvils beat, Deform'd themselves, yet forge those stays of steel, Which arm Aurelia with a fhape to kill. So Macer and Mundungus fchool the times, And write in rugged profe the rules of fofter rhymes. Well do they play the careful critic's part, Inftructing doubly by their matchless art: Rules for good verfe they firft with pains indite, Then fhew us what are bad by what they write.

A LETTER

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE

LORD VISCOUNT COBHAM, 1729.

"Albi, fermonum noftrorum candide judex.”

SINCEREST critic of my profe or rhyme,

Tell how thy pleafing Stowe employs thy time, Say, Cobham, what amufes thy retreat? Or ftratagems of war, or fehemes of state? Doft thou recal to mind with joy, or grief, Great Marlborough's actions; that immortal chief, Whofe flightest trophy rais'd in each campaign, More than fuffic'd to fignalize a reign? Does thy remembrance rifing warm thy heart With glory paft, where thou thy felf hadft part? Or doft thou grieve indignant now to fee The fruitless end of all thy victory; To fee th' audacious foe, folate fubdued, Difpute thofe terms for which fo long they sued, As if Britannia now were funk fo low, To beg that peace she wonted to bestow? Be far that guilt! be never known that shame! That England should retract her rightful claim, Or, ceafing to be dreaded and ador'd, Stain with her pen the luftre of her fword. Or doft thou give the winds afar to blow Each vexing thought, and heart-devouring woe,

And fix thy mind alone on rural scenes;
To turn the levell'd lawns to liquid plains,
To raise the creeping rills from humble beds,
And force the latent fprings to lift their heads,
On watery columns, capitals to rear,

That mix their flowing curls with upper air?
Or doft thou, weary grown, those works neglect,
No temples, ftatues, obelisks, erect,

But catch the morning breeze from fragrant meads?
Or fhun the noontide ray in wholesome shades?

Or flowly walk along the mazy wood,
To meditate on all that's wife and good?
For nature, bountiful, in thee has join'd
A perfon pleafing with a worthy mind;

Not given thee form alone, but means, and art,
To draw the eye, or to allure the heart.
Poor were the praife in fortune to excel,
Yet want the way to use that fortune well.
While thus adorn'd, while thus with virtue crown'd,
At home in peace, abroad in arms renown'd;
Graceful in form, and winning in addrefs;
While well you think, what aptly you exprefs;
With health, with honour, with a fair eftate,
A table free, and eloquently neat,
What can be added more to mortal blifs?
What can he want who ftands poffeft of this?
What can the fondeft wifhing mother more
Of heaven attentive for her fon implore?
And yet a happiness remains unknown,
¡Or to philofophy reveal'd alone;

A precept, which, unpractis'd, renders vain
Thy flowing hopes, and pleafure turns to pain.
Should hope and fear thy heart alternate tear,
Or love, or hate, or rage, or anxious care,
Whatever paffions may thy mind infeft,
(Where is that mind which paffions ne'er moleft?)
Amidft the pangs of fuch inteftine strife,
Still think the present day the laft of life;
Defer not till to-morrow to be wife,
To-morrow's fun to thee may never rife.

Or fhould to-morrow chance to cheer thy fight
With her enlivening and unlook'd-for light,
How grateful will appear her dawning rays!
As favours unexpected doubly please.
Who thus can think, and who fuch thoughts purfues,
Content may keep his life, or calmly lofe :
All proofs of this thou may't thyself receive,
"When leifure from affairs will give thee leave.
Come, fee thy friend, retir'd without regret,
Forgetting care, or ftriving to forget;

In eafy contemplation foothing time

WRITTEN AT TUNBRIDGE WELLS ON

MISS TEMPLE,

AFTERWARDS LADY OF SIR THO. LYTTELTON

LEAVE, leave the drawing-room,

Where flowers of beauty us'd to bloom;
The nymph that's fated to o'ercome,
Now triumphs at the wells.

Her shape, and air, and eyes,
Her face, the gay, the grave, the wife,
The beau, in fpite of box and dice,.
Acknowledge, all excels.

Ceafe, ceafe, to ask her name,
The crowned Mufe's nobleft theme,
Whofe glory by immortal fame

Shall only founded be.
But if you long to know,

Then look round yonder dazzling row;
Who most does like an angel show,

You may be fure 'tis fhe.

See near thofe facred springs,
Which cure to fell diseases brings,
(As ancient fame of Ida' fings)
Three goddeffes appear!
Wealth, glory, two poffeft;
The third with charming beauty bleft,
So fair, that heaven and earth confeft
She conquer'd every where.

Like her, this charmer now
Makes every love-fick gazer bow;
Nay, even old age her power allow,

And banish'd flames recall.
Wealth can no trophy rear,
Nor glory now the garland wear:
To beauty every Paris here
Devotes the golden ball.

EPIGRAM

N THE

Not fo robuft in body, as in mind,

And always undejected, though declin'd;

Not wondering at the world's wicked ways,

Compar'd with thofe of our fore-father's days; For virtue now is neither more or lefs,

And vice is only varied in the dress.

Believe it, men have ever been the fame,
And all the golden age is but a dream.

AND

MR. CONGREVE.

ONE fatal day, a sympathetic fire

Seiz'd him that writ, and her that did inspire. Mohun, the Muses theme, their master Congreve, Beauty and wit, had like to`ve lain in one grave.