A SON

G,

In Imitation of Sir JOHN EATON.

I.

late, alas! I must confess,

You need not arts to move me; Such charms by nature you poffefs, "Twere madness not to love ye.

II.

Then spare a heart you may furprize,
And give my tongue the glory
To boaft, though my unfaithful eyes
Betray a tender ftory.

A LETTER

FROM ARTEMISA IN THE TOWN, To CLOE IN THE COUNTRY.

CLO

LOE, by your command in verfe I write ;
Shortly you'll bid me ride aftride and fight:

Such talents better with our fex

agree,

Than lofty flights of dangerous poetry.

Among the men, I mean the men of wit,
(At least they pafs'd for fuch before they writ)
How many bold adventurers for the bays,
Proudly defigning large returns of praise ;

Who

Who durft that ftormy pathlefs world explore,

Where foon dafh'd back, and wreck'd on the dull fhore,
Broke of that little stock they had before!
How would a woman's tottering barque be toft,
Where ftouteft ships (the men of wit) are loft!
When I reflect on this, I ftraight grow wife,
And my own felf I gravely thus advise :
Dear Artemifa! poetry 's a fnare;
Bedlam has many manfions, have a care;
Your Mufe diverts you, makes the reader fad ;
You think yourself infpir'd, he thinks you mad.
Confider too, 'twill be difcreetly done,

To make yourself the fiddle of the town.

To find th' ill-humour'd pleasure at their need:
Curs'd when you fail, and scorn'd when you fucceed.
Thus, like an arrant woman as I am,

No fooner well convinc'd writing 's a fhame,
That Whore is scarce a more reproachful name
Than Poetefs-

Like men that marry, or like maids that woo,
Because 'tis th' very worst thing they can do:
Pleas'd with the contradiction and the fin,
Methinks I ftand on thorns till I begin.

Y' expect to hear, at least, what love has past
In this lewd town, fince you and I faw laft;

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What change has happen'd of intrigues, and whether
The old ones laft, and who and who's together.

But how, my dearest Cloe, fhould I fet
My pen to write what I would fain forget!

Οι

Or name that loft thing Love, without a tear,
Since fo debauch'd by ill-bred customs here?
Love, the most generous paffion of the mind,
The foftest refuge innocence can find;
The fafe director of unguided youth,

Fraught with kind wishes, and fecur'd by truth;
That cordial-drop heaven in our cup has thrown,
To make the naufeous draught of life go down;
On which one only bleffing God might raise,
In lands of Atheists, fubfidies of praife:
For none did e'er fo dull and ftupid prove,
But felt a God, and bless'd his power, in love :
This only joy, for which poor we are made,
Is grown, like play, to be an arrant trade:
The rooks creep in, and it has got of late
As many little cheats and tricks as that;
But, what yet more a woman's heart would vex,
'Tis chiefly carry'd on by our own sex ;
Our filly fex, who born, like monarchs, free,
Turn Gipfies for a meaner liberty,

And hate restraint, though but from infamy :
That call whatever is not common nice,
And, deaf to Nature's rule, or Love's advice,
Forfake the pleasure, to pursue the vice.
To an exact perfection they have brought
The action Love, the paffion is forgot.
"Tis below wit, they tell you, to admire,
And ev❜n without approving they defire:
Their private with obeys the public voice,
"Twixt good and bad whimfy decides, not choice:

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Fashions

Fashions grow up for tafte, at forms they ftrike,
They know what they would have, not what they like.
Bovy's a beauty, if fome few agree

To call him fo, the reft to that degree
Affected are, that with their ears they see.
Where I was vifiting the other night,
Comes a fine lady, with her humble knight,
Who had prevail'd with her, through her own skill,
At his requeft, though much against his will,
To come to London-

As the coach ftopt, I heard her voice, more loud
Than a great-belly'd woman's in a croud;
Telling the knight, that her affairs require
He, for fome hours, obfequiously retire.
I think she was afham'd he should be seen :
Hard fate of hufbands! the gallant had been,
Though a difeas'd, ill-favour'd fool, brought in.
Difpatch, fays fhe, the bufinefs you pretend,
Your beaftly vifit to your drunken friend,
A bottle ever makes you look fo fine;
Methinks I long to fmell you stink of wine.
Your country drinking breath 's enough to kill;
Sour ale corrected with a lemon-peel.
Pr'ythee, farewell; we'll meet again anon:
The neceffary thing bows, and is gone.
She flies up ftairs, and all the hafte does show
That fifty antic postures will allow;
And then bursts out-Dear madam, am not I
The strangeft, alter'd, creature: let me die,

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Í find

I find myself ridiculously grown,
Embarraft with my being out of town:
Rude and untaught, like any Indian queen,
My country nakedness is plainly seen.

How is Love govern'd? Love that rules the state;
And pray who are the men most worn of late?
When I was marry'd, fools were à-la-mode,
The men of wit were then held incommode :
Slow of belief, and fickle in defire,
Who, ere they'll be perfuaded, muft enquire,
As if they came to spy, and not t' admire:
With fearching wifdom, fatal to their ease,
They ftill find out why what may should not please ;
Nay, take themselves for injur'd, when we dare
Make them think better of us than we are;
And if we hide our frailties from their fights,
Call us deceitful jilts and hypocrites;
They little guess, who at our arts are griev❜d,
The perfect joy of being well deceiv'd;
Inquifitive as jealous cuckolds grow;

Rather than not be knowing, they will know
What, being known, creates their certain woe.
Women should these, of all mankind, avoid,
For wonder, by clear knowledge, is destroy'd.
Woman, who is an arrant bird of night,
Bold in the dusk, before a fool's dull fight
Muft fly, when Reason brings the glaring light.
But the kind easy fool, apt to admire
Himself, trufts us; his follies all conspire
To flatter his, and favour our defire :

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