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By Celia's pat, on their report,
We gaze, and see the smiling loves,
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 vent'ring 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.
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,
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,
That tribe, whose practicals decree Small beer the deadliest heresy ; Who, fond of pedigree, derive
From the most noted whore alive;
I rail not with mock-patriot grace