By Celia's pat, on their report,
The grave-air'd soul, inclin❜d to sport,
Renounces wisdom's sullen pomp,
And loves the floral game, to romp,
But who can view the pointed rays,
That from black eyes scintillant blaze?
Love on his throne of glory seems
Encompass'd with Satellite beams.
But when blue eyes, more softly bright,
Diffuse benignly humid light,
We gaze, and see the smiling loves,
And Cytherea's gentle doves,
And raptur'd fix in such a face,
Love's mercy seat, and throne of
grace.
Shine but on age, you melt its snow;
Again fires long-extinguish'd glow,
And, charm'd by witchery of eyes,
Blood long congeal'd liquefies!
True miracle, and fairly done
By heads which are ador'd while on.

But oh, what pity 'tis to find Such beauties both of form and mind, By modern breeding much debas'd, In half the female world at least! Hence I with care such lott'ries shun, Where, a prize miss'd, I'm quite undone; And han't, by ventʼring on a wife, Yet run the greatest risk in life.

Mothers, and guardian aunts, forbear
Your impious pains to form the fair,
Nor lay out so much cost and art,
But to deflow'r the virgin heart;
Of every folly-fost'ring bed

By quick'ning heat of custom bred.
Rather than by your culture spoil'd,
Desist, and give us nature wild,
Delighted with a hoyden soul,

Which truth and innocence control.
Coquets, leave off affected arts,

Gay fowlers at a flock of hearts;
Woodcocks to shun your snares have skill,
You shew so plain, you strive to kill.

In love the artless catch the game,

And they scarce miss who never aim.

The world's great author did create
The sex to fit the nuptial state,
And meant a blessing in a wife
To solace the fatigues of life;
And old inspired times display,
How wives could love, and yet obey.
Then truth, and patience of control,
And house-wife arts adorn'd the soul;
And charms, the gift of nature, shone ;
And jealousy, a thing unknown:
Veils were the only masks they wore ;
Novels (receipts to make a whore)
Nor ombre, nor quadrille they knew,

Nor Pam's puissance felt at loo.
Wise men did not to be thought gay,
Then compliment their pow'r away :
But lest, by frail desires misled,
The girls forbidden paths should tread,
Of ign'rance rais'd the safe high wall;
We sink haw-haws, that shew them all.
Thus we at once solicit sense,

And charge them not to break the fence.

Now, if untir'd, consider friend, What I avoid to gain my end.

I never am at Meeting seen, Meeting, that region of the Spleen; The broken heart, the busy fiend, The inward call, on Spleen depend.

Law, licens❜d breaking of the peace,
To which vacation is disease:
A gypsy diction scarce known well
By th' magi, who law-fortunes tell,
I shun; nor let it breed within
Anxiety, and that the Spleen;
Law, grown a forest, where perplex
The mazes, and the brambles vex ;
Where its twelves verd' rers every day
Are changing still the public way:
Yet if we miss our path and err,
We grievous penalties incur ;

And wand'rers tire, and tear their skin, And then get out where they went in.

I never game, and rarely bet, Am loth to lend, or run in debt. No compter-writs me agitate;

Who moralizing pass the gate,

And there mine eyes on spendthrifts turn,
Who vainly o'er their bondage mourn.
Wisdom, before beneath their care,
Pays her upbraiding visits there,
And forces folly through the grate
Her panegyric to repeat.

This view, profusely when inclin❜d,
Enters a caveat in the mind;

Experience join'd with common sense,
To mortals is a providence.

Passion, as frequently is seen,
Subsiding settles into Spleen.
Hence, as the plague of happy life,
I run away from party-strife.
A prince's cause, a church's claim,
I've known to raise a mighty flame,
And priest, as stoker, very free
To throw in peace and charity.

That tribe, whose practicals decree Small beer the deadliest heresy ; Who, fond of pedigree, derive

From the most noted whore alive;
Who own wine's old prophetic aid,
And love the mitre Bacchus made,
Forbid the faithful to depend

On half-pint drinkers for a friend,
And in whose gay red-letter'd face
We read good living more than grace :
Nor they so pure, and so precise,
Immac❜late as their white of eyes,
Who for the spirit hug the Spleen,
Phylacter'd throughout all their mien,
Who their ill-tasted home-brew'd pray'r
To the state's mellow forms prefer;
Who doctrines, as infectious, fear,
Which are not steep'd in vinegar,
And samples of heart-chested grace
Expose in shew-glass of the face,
Did never me as yet provoke
Either to honor band and cloak,
Or deck my hat with leaves of oak.

I rail not with mock-patriot grace
At folks, because they are in place;
Nor, hir'd to praise with stallion pen,
Serve the ear-lechery of men;
But to avoid religious jars

The laws are my expositors,
Which in my doubting mind create
Conformity to church and state.
I go, pursuant to my plan,