What then shall bid the passion change, not cool?
No charm's in the possession of a fool.
Next for the all-attracting power of gold,
That as a thing indifferent you hold.
I know thy am'rous heart, whose honest pride
Is still to be on the obliging side,
Would wish the fair one, whom your soul allures,
Enjoy'd a fortune rather less than yours.
Those whom the dazzling glare of fortune strikes,
Whom gold allures to what the soul dislikes;
If counterfeit affection they support,
Strict penance do, and golden fetters court.
But if ungrateful for the boon they grow,
And pay the bounteous female back with woe,
These are the worst of robbers in their wills,
Whom laws prevent from doing lesser ills.
Many who profit in a match intend, Find themselves clearly losers in the end, Fulvius, who basely from Melissa broke, With richer Chloe to sustain the yoke, Sees, in her vast expense, his crimes repaid, And oft laments the poor forsaken maid. And say, what soul, that's not to slavery born, Can bear the taunts, th' upbraidings, and the scorn, Which women with their fortunes oft bestow? Worse torments far than poverty can know.
Happy Alexis, sprung from such a race,
Whose blood would no nobility disgrace.
But, O prefer some tender of a flock,
Who scarce can graft one parson on her stock,
To a fair branch of Churchill's noble line,
If thou must often hear it match'd with thine.
Hence should, I say, by her big taunts compell'd,
With Tallard taken, Villars forced to yield,
And all the glories of great Blenheim's field.
While thus secure from what too frequent charms,
Small force against the rest your bosom arms.
Ill-nature, pride, or a malicious spleen,
To be abhorr'd, need only to be seen;
But to discover 'em may ask some art:
Women to lovers seldom faults impart.
She's more than woman, who can still conceal
Faults from a lover who will watch her well.
The dams of art may Nature's stream oppose,
It swells at last, and in a torrent flows.
But men, too partial, think, when they behold
A mistress rude, vain, obstinate, or bold,
That she to others who a demon proves,
May be an angel to the man she loves.
Mistaken hope, that can expect to find
Pride ever humble, or ill-nature kind.
No, rest assured, the ill which now you see
Her act to others, she will act to thee.
Shun then the serpent, when the sting appears,
Nor think a hurtful nature ever spares.
Two sorts of women never should be woo'd,
The wild coquette, and the censorious prude:
From love both chiefly seek to feed their pride,
Those to affect it strive, and these to hide.
Each gay coquette would be admired alone
By all, each prude be thought to value none.
Flaretta so weak vanities enthrall,
She'd leave her eager bridegroom for a ball.
Chloe, the darling trifle of the town,
Had ne'er been won but by her wedding gown;
While in her fond Myrtillo's arms caress'd,
She doats on that, and wishes to be dress'd.
Like some poor bird, just pent within the cage,
Whose rambling heart in vain you would engage,
Cold to your fondness, it laments its chain,
And wanton longs to range the fields again.
But prudes, whose thoughts superior themes employ,
Scorn the dull transports of a carnal joy:
With screw'd-up face, confess they suffer raptures,
And marry only to obey the Scriptures.
But if her constitution take the part
Of honest Nature 'gainst the wiles of art;
If she gives loose to love, she loves indeed;
Then endless fears and jealousies succeed.
If fondness e'er abate, you're weary grown,
And doat on some lewd creature of the town.
If any beauty to a visit come;
Why can't these gadding wretches stay at home?
They think each compliment conveys a flame,
You cannot both be civil to the same.
Of all the plagues with which a husband's curst,
A jealous prude's, my friend sure knows, the worst.
Some sterner foes to marriage bold aver,
That in this choice a man must surely err:
Nor can I to this lottery advise,
A thousand blanks appearing to a prize.
Women by nature form'd too prone to ill,
By education are made proner still;
To cheat, deceive, conceal each genuine thought,
By mothers and by mistresses are taught.
The face and shape are first the mother's care;
The dancing-master next improves the air.
To these perfections add a voice most sweet;
The skill'd musician makes the nymph complete.
Thus with a person well equipp'd, her mind
Left, as when first created, rude and blind,
She's sent to make her conquests on mankind.
But first inform'd the studied glance to aim,
Where riches show the profitable game:
How with unequal smiles the jest to take,
When princes, lords, or squires, or captains speak;
These lovers careful shun, and those create,
And merit only see in an estate.
But tho' too many of this sort we find,
Some there are surely of a nobler kind.
274 TO A FRIEND ON THE CHOICE OF A WIFE
Nor can your judgment want a rule to choose
If by these maxims guided you refuse.
His wishes then give Fidus to declare,
And paint the chief perfections of the fair.
May she then prove, who shall thy lot befall,
Beauteous to thee, agreeable to all.
Nor wit nor learning proudly may she boast;
No low-bred girl, nor gay fantastic toast:
Her tender soul good-nature must adorn,
And vice and meanness be alone her scorn.
Fond of thy person, may her bosom glow
With passions thou hast taught her first to know.
A warm partaker of the genial bed,
Thither by fondness, not by lewdness led.
Superior judgment may she own thy lot;
Humbly advise, but contradict thee not.
Thine to all other company prefer;
May all thy troubles find relief from her.
If fortune gives thee such a wife to meet,
Earth cannot make thy blessing more complete.
THAT Varius huffs, and fights it out to-day,
Who ran last week so cowardly away,
In Codrus may surprise the little skill,
Who nothing knows of humankind, but ill:
Confining all his knowledge, and his art,
To this, that each man is corrupt at heart.
But thou who Nature thro' each maze canst trace,
Who in her closet forcest her embrace;
Canst with thy Horace see the human elves
Not differ more from others than themselves:
Canst see one man at several times appear,
Now gay, now grave, now candid, now severe;
Now save his friends, now leave 'em in the lurch;
Now rant in brothels, and now cant in church.
Yet farther with the muse pursue the theme,
And see how various men at once will seem;
How passions blended on each other fix,
How vice with virtues, faults with graces mix;
How passions opposite, as sour to sweet,
Shall in one bosom at one moment meet,
With various luck for victory contend,
And now shall carry, and now lose their end.
The rotten beau, while smell'd along the room,
Divides your nose 'twixt stenches and perfume:
So vice and virtue lay such equal claim,
Your judgment knows not when to praise or blame.
Had Nature actions to one source confined,
Ev'n blund'ring Codrus might have known mankind.
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