The Poetical Works of Edward Young Part 10

We grant that beauty is no bar to sense, Nor is't a sanction for impertinence.

Semp.r.o.nia lik'd her man; and well she might; The youth in person, and in parts, was bright; Possess'd of every virtue, grace, and art, That claims just empire o'er the female heart: He met her pa.s.sion, all her sighs return'd, And, in full rage of youthful ardour, burn'd: Large his possessions, and beyond her own: Their bliss the theme, and envy of the town: The day was fix'd, when, with one acre more, In stepp'd deform'd, debauch'd, diseas'd threescore.

The fatal sequel I, through shame, forbear: Of pride, and av'rice, who can cure the fair?

Man's rich with little, were his judgment true; Nature is frugal, and her wants are few; Those few wants answer'd, bring sincere delights; But fools create themselves new appet.i.tes: Fancy, and pride, seek things at vast expense, Which relish not to reason, nor to sense.

When surfeit, or unthankfulness, destroys, In nature's narrow sphere, our solid joys, In fancy's airy land of noise and show, Where nought but dreams, no real pleasures, grow; Like cats in air-pumps, to subsist we strive On joys too thin to keep the soul alive.

Lemira's sick; make haste; the doctor call: He comes; but where's his patient? At the ball.

The doctor stares; her woman curtsies low, And cries, "My lady, Sir, is always so: Diversions put her maladies to flight: True, she can't stand, but she can dance all night: I've known my lady (for she loves a tune) For fevers take an opera in June: And, tho' perhaps you'll think the practice bold, A midnight park is sov'reign for a cold: With cholics, breakfasts of green fruit agree; With indigestions, supper just at three."

A strange alternative, replies Sir Hans, Must women have a doctor, or a dance?

Though sick to death, abroad they safely roam, But droop and die, in perfect health, at home: For want-but not of health, are ladies ill; And tickets cure beyond the doctor's pill.

Alas, my heart! how languis.h.i.+ngly fair Yon lady lolls! with what a tender air!

Pale as a young dramatic author, when, O'er darling lines, fell Cibber waves his pen.

Is her lord angry, or has(14) Veny chid?

Dead is her father, or the mask forbid?

"Late sitting up has turn'd her roses white."

Why went she not to bed? "Because 'twas night."

Did she then dance, or play? "Nor this, nor that."

Well, night soon steals away in pleasing chat.

"No, all alone, her prayers she rather chose, Than be that wretch to sleep till morning rose."

Then lady Cynthia, mistress of the shade, Goes, with the fas.h.i.+onable owls, to bed: This her pride covets, this her health denies; Her soul is silly, but her body's wise.

Others, with curious arts, dim charms revive, And triumph in the bloom of fifty-five.

You, in the morning, a fair nymph invite; To keep her word, a brown one comes at night: Next day she s.h.i.+nes in glossy black; and then Revolves into her native red again: Like a dove's neck, she s.h.i.+fts her transient charms, And is her own dear rival in your arms.

But one admirer has the painted la.s.s; Nor finds that one, but in her looking-gla.s.s: Yet Laura's beautiful to such excess, That all her art scarce makes her please us less.

To deck the female cheek, he only knows, Who paints less fair the lily, and the rose.

How gay they smile! Such blessings nature pours, O'erstock'd mankind enjoy but half her stores: In distant wilds, by human eyes unseen, She rears her flowers, and spreads her velvet green: Pure gurgling rills the lonely desert trace, And waste their music on the savage race.

Is nature then a n.i.g.g.ard of her bliss?

Repine we guiltless in a world like this?

But our lewd tastes her lawful charms refuse, And painted art's depraved allurements choose.

Such Fulvia's pa.s.sion for the town; fresh air (An odd effect!) gives vapours to the fair; Green fields, and shady groves, and crystal springs, And larks, and nightingales, are odious things; But smoke, and dust, and noise, and crowds, delight; And to be press'd to death, transports her quite: Where silver riv'lets play through flow'ry meads, And woodbines give their sweets, and limes their shades, Black kennels' absent odours she regrets, And stops her nose at beds of violets.

Is stormy life preferr'd to the serene?

Or is the public to the private scene?

Retir'd, we tread a smooth and open way; Through briers and brambles in the world we stray; Stiff opposition, and perplex'd debate, And th.o.r.n.y care, and rank and stinging hate, Which choke our pa.s.sage, our career control, And wound the firmest temper of our soul.

O sacred solitude! divine retreat!

Choice of the prudent! envy of the great!

By thy pure stream, or in thy waving shade, We court fair wisdom, that celestial maid: The genuine offspring of her lov'd embrace, (Strangers on earth!) are innocence and peace: There, from the ways of men laid safe ash.o.r.e, We smile to hear the distant tempest roar; There, bless'd with health, with business unperplex'd, This life we relish, and ensure the next; There too the muses sport; these numbers free, Pierian Eastbury! I owe to thee.

There sport the muses; but not there alone: Their sacred force Amelia feels in town.

Nought but a genius can a genius fit; A wit herself, Amelia weds a wit: Both wits! though miracles are said to cease, Three days, three wondrous days! they liv'd in peace; With the fourth sun a warm dispute arose, On Durfey's poesy, and Bunyan's prose: The learned war both wage with equal force, And the fifth morn concluded the divorce.

Phbe, though she possesses nothing less, Is proud of being rich in happiness: Laboriously pursues delusive toys, Content with pains, since they're reputed joys.

With what well-acted transport will she say, "Well, sure, we were so happy yesterday!

And then that charming party for to-morrow!"

Though, well she knows, 'twill languish into sorrow: But she dares never boast the present hour; So gross that cheat, it is beyond her power: For such is or our weakness, or our curse, Or rather such our crime, which still is worse, The present moment, like a wife, we shun, And ne'er enjoy, because it is our own.

Pleasures are few, and fewer we enjoy; Pleasure, like quicksilver, is bright, and coy; We strive to grasp it with our utmost skill, Still it eludes us, and it glitters still: If seiz'd at last, compute your mighty gains; What is it, but rank poison in your veins?

As Flavia in her gla.s.s an angel spies, Pride whispers in her ear pernicious lies; Tells her, while she surveys a face so fine, There's no satiety of charms divine: Hence, if her lover yawns, all chang'd appears Her temper, and she melts (sweet soul!) in tears: She, fond and young, last week, her wish enjoy'd, In soft amus.e.m.e.nt all the night employ'd; The morning came, when Strephon, waking, found (Surprising sight!) his bride in sorrow drown'd.

"What miracle," says Strephon, "makes thee weep?"

"Ah, barb'rous man!" she cries, "how could you--sleep?"

Men love a mistress, as they love a feast; How grateful one to touch, and one to taste!

Yet sure there is a certain time of day, We wish our mistress, and our meat, away: But soon the sated appet.i.tes return, Again our stomachs crave, our bosoms burn: Eternal love let man, then, never swear; Let women never triumph, nor despair; Nor praise, nor blame, too much, the warm, or chill; Hunger and love are foreign to the will.

There is indeed a pa.s.sion more refin'd, For those few nymphs whose charms are of the mind: But not of that unfas.h.i.+onable set Is Phyllis; Phyllis and her Damon met.

Eternal love exactly hits her taste; Phyllis demands eternal love at least.

Embracing Phyllis with soft smiling eyes, Eternal love I vow, the swain replies: But say, my all, my mistress, and my friend!

What day next week th' eternity shall end?

Some nymphs prefer astronomy to love: Elope from mortal man, and range above.

The fair philosopher to Rowley flies, Where, in a box, the whole creation lies: She sees the planets in their turns advance, And scorns, Poitier, thy sublunary dance; Of Desagulier she bespeaks fresh air; And Whiston has engagements with the fair.

What vain experiments Sophronia tries!

'Tis not in air-pumps the gay colonel dies.

But though to-day this rage of science reigns, (O fickle s.e.x!) soon end her learned pains.

Lo! Pug from Jupiter her heart has got, Turns out the stars, and Newton is a sot.

To--turn; she never took the height Of Saturn, yet is ever in the right.

She strikes each point with native force of mind, While puzzled learning blunders far behind, Graceful to sight, and elegant to thought, The great are vanquish'd, and the wise are taught.

Her breeding finish'd, and her temper sweet, When serious, easy; and when gay, discreet; In glittering scenes, o'er her own heart, sincere; In crowds, collected; and in courts, severe; Sincere, and warm, with zeal well understood, She takes a n.o.ble pride in doing good; Yet not superior to her s.e.x's cares, The mode she fixes by the gown she wears; Of silks and china she's the last appeal; In these great points she leads the commonweal; And if disputes of empire rise between Mechlin the queen of lace, and colberteen, 'Tis doubt! 'tis darkness! till suspended fate a.s.sumes her nod, to close the grand debate.

When such her mind, why will the fair express Their emulation only in their dress?

But, oh! the nymph that mounts above the skies, And, gratis, clears religious mysteries, Resolv'd the church's welfare to ensure, And make her family a sine-cure: The theme divine at cards she'll not forget, But takes in texts of Scripture at picquet; In those licentious meetings acts the prude, And thanks her Maker that her cards are good.

What angels would those be, who thus excel In theologies, could they sew as well!

Yet why should not the fair her text pursue?

Can she more decently the doctor woo?

'Tis hard, too, she who makes no use but chat Of her religion, should be barr'd in that.

Isaac, a brother of the canting strain, When he has knock'd at his own skull in vain, To beauteous Marcia often will repair With a dark text, to light it at the fair.

O how his pious soul exults to find Such love for holy men in woman-kind!

Charm'd with her learning, with what rapture he Hangs on her bloom, like an industrious bee!

Hums round about her, and with all his power Extracts sweet wisdom from so fair a flower!

The young and gay declining, Appia flies At n.o.bler game, the mighty and the wise: By nature more an eagle than a dove, She impiously prefers the world to love.

Can wealth give happiness? look round, and see What gay distress! what splendid misery!

Whatever fortune lavishly can pour, The mind annihilates, and calls for more!

Wealth is a cheat; believe not what it says; Like any lord it promises-and pays.

How will the miser startle, to be told Of such a wonder, as insolvent gold!

What nature wants has an intrinsic weight; All more, is but the fas.h.i.+on of the plate, Which, for one moment, charms the fickle view; It charms us now; anon we cast anew; To some fresh birth of fancy more inclin'd: Then wed not acres, but a n.o.ble mind.

Mistaken lovers, who make worth their care, And think accomplishments will win the fair: The fair, 'tis true, by genius should be won, As flow'rs unfold their beauties to the sun; And yet in female scales a fop outweighs, And wit must wear the willow and the bays.

Nought s.h.i.+nes so bright in vain Liberia's eye As riot, impudence, and perfidy; The youth of fire, that has drunk deep, and play'd, And kill'd his man, and triumph'd o'er his maid; For him, as yet unhang'd, she spreads her charms, s.n.a.t.c.hes the dear destroyer to her arms; And amply gives (though treated long amiss) The man of merit his revenge in this, If you resent, and wish a woman ill, But turn her o'er one moment to her will.

The languid lady next appears in state, Who was not born to carry her own weight; She lolls, reels, staggers, till some foreign aid To her own stature lifts the feeble maid.

Then, if ordain'd to so severe a doom, She, by just stages, journeys round the room: But, knowing her own weakness, she despairs To scale the Alps-that is, ascend the stairs.

My fan! let others say, who laugh at toil; Fan! hood! glove! scarf! is her laconic style; And that is spoke with such a dying fall, That Betty rather sees, than hears the call: The motion of her lips, and meaning eye, Piece out th' idea her faint words deny.

O listen with attention most profound!

Her voice is but the shadow of a sound.

And help! oh help! her spirits are so dead, One hand scarce lifts the other to her head.

If, there, a stubborn pin it triumphs o'er, She pants! she sinks away! and is more.

Let the robust and the gigantic carve, Life is not worth so much, she'd rather starve; But chew she must herself; ah cruel fate!

That Rosalinda can't by proxy eat.

An antidote in female caprice lies (Kind heaven!) against the poison of their eyes.

Thalestris triumphs in a manly mien; Loud is her accent, and her phrase obscene.

In fair and open dealing where's the shame?

What nature dares to give, she dares to name.

This honest fellow is sincere and plain, And justly gives the jealous husband pain.

(Vain is the task to petticoats a.s.sign'd, If wanton language shows a naked mind.) And now and then, to grace her eloquence, An oath supplies the vacancies of sense.

Hark! the shrill notes transpierce the yielding air, And teach the neighb'ring echoes how to swear.

By Jove, is faint, and for the simple swain; She, on the Christian system, is profane.

But though the volley rattles in your ear, Believe her dress, she's not a grenadier.

If thunder's awful, how much more our dread, When Jove deputes a lady in his stead?

A lady! pardon my mistaken pen, A shameless woman is the worst of men.

Few to good breeding make a just pretence; Good breeding is the blossom of good sense; The last result of an accomplish'd mind, With outward grace, the body's virtue, join'd.

A violated decency now reigns; And nymphs for failings take peculiar pains.

With Chinese painters modern toasts agree, The point they aim at is deformity: They throw their persons with a hoyden air Across the room, and toss into the chair.