The Poetical Works of Edward Young Part 11

So far their commerce with mankind is gone, They, for our manners, have exchang'd their own.

The modest look, the castigated grace, The gentle movement, and slow measur'd pace, For which her lovers died, her parents pray'd, Are indecorums with the modern maid.

Stiff forms are bad; but let not worse intrude, Nor conquer art and nature, to be rude.

Modern good-breeding carry to its height, And lady D--'s self will be polite.

Ye rising fair! ye bloom of Britain's isle!

When high-born Anna, with a soften'd smile, Leads on your train, and sparkles at your head, What seems most hard, is, not to be well bred.

Her bright example with success pursue, And all, but adoration, is your due.

But adoration! give me something more, Cries Lyce, on the borders of threescore: Nought treads so silent as the foot of time; Hence we mistake our autumn for our prime; 'Tis greatly wise to know, before we're told, The melancholy news, that we grow old.

Autumnal Lyce carries in her face Memento mori to each public place.

O how your beating breast a mistress warms, Who looks through spectacles to see your charms!

While rival undertakers hover round, And with his spade the s.e.xton marks the ground, Intent not on her own, but others' doom, She plans new conquests, and defrauds the tomb.

In vain the c.o.c.k has summon'd sprites away, She walks at noon, and blasts the bloom of day.

Gay rainbow silks her mellow charms infold, And nought of Lyce but herself is old.

Her grizzled locks a.s.sume a smirking grace, And art has levell'd her deep-furrow'd face.

Her strange demand no mortal can approve, We'll ask her blessing, but can't ask her love.

She grants, indeed, a lady may decline (All ladies but herself) at ninety-nine.

O how unlike her is the sacred age Of prudent Portia! her gray hairs engage; Whose thoughts are suited to her life's decline: Virtue's the paint that can with wrinkles shine.

That, and that only, can old age sustain; Which yet all wish, nor know they wish for pain.

Not num'rous are our joys, when life is new; And yearly some are falling of the few; But when we conquer life's meridian stage, And downward tend into the vale of age, They drop apace; by nature some decay, And some the blasts of fortune sweep away; Till naked quite of happiness, aloud We call for death, and shelter in a shroud.

Where's Portia now?-But Portia left behind Two lovely copies of her form and mind.

What heart untouch'd their early grief can view, Like blushing rose-buds dipp'd in morning dew?

Who into shelter takes their tender bloom, And forms their minds to flee from ills to come?

The mind, when turn'd adrift, no rules to guide, Drives at the mercy of the wind and tide; Fancy and pa.s.sion toss it to and fro; Awhile torment, and then quite sink in woe.

Ye beauteous orphans, since in silent dust Your best example lies, my precepts trust.

Life swarms with ills; the boldest are afraid; Where then is safety for a tender maid?

Unfit for conflict, round beset with woes, And man, whom least she fears, her worst of foes!

When kind, most cruel; when oblig'd the most, The least obliging; and by favours lost.

Cruel by nature, they for kindness hate; And scorn you for those ills themselves create.

If on your fame your s.e.x a blot has thrown, 'Twill ever stick, through malice of your own.

Most hard! in pleasing your chief glory lies; And yet from pleasing your chief dangers rise: Then please the best; and know, for men of sense, Your strongest charms are native innocence.

Art on the mind, like paint upon the face, Fright him, that's worth your love, from your embrace.

In simple manners all the secret lies; Be kind and virtuous, you'll be blest and wise.

Vain show and noise intoxicate the brain, Begin with giddiness, and end in pain.

Affect not empty fame, and idle praise, Which, all those wretches I describe, betrays.

Your s.e.x's glory 'tis, to shine unknown; Of all applause, be fondest of your own.

Beware the fever of the mind! that thirst With which the age is eminently curst: To drink of pleasure, but inflames desire; And abstinence alone can quench the fire; Take pain from life, and terror from the tomb; Give peace in hand; and promise bliss to come.

Satire VI.

On Women.

Inscribed to the Right Honourable the Lady Elizabeth Germain.

Interdum tamen et tollit comdia vocem.

-HOR.

I sought a patroness, but sought in vain.

Apollo whisper'd in my ear-"Germain."- I know her not.-"Your reason's somewhat odd; Who knows his patron, now?" replied the G.o.d.

"Men write, to me, and to the world, unknown; Then steal great names, to shield them from the town.

Detected worth, like beauty disarray'd, To covert flies, of praise itself afraid: Should she refuse to patronize your lays, In vengeance write a volume in her praise.

Nor think it hard so great a length to run; When such the theme, 'twill easily be done."

Ye fair! to draw your excellence at length, Exceeds the narrow bounds of human strength; You, here, in miniature your picture see; Nor hope from Zincks more justice than from me.

My portraits grace your mind, as his your side; His portraits will inflame, mine quench, your pride.

He's dear, you frugal; choose my cheaper lay; And be your reformation all my pay.

Lavinia is polite, but not profane; To church as constant as to Drury Lane.

She decently, in form, pays heaven its due; And makes a civil visit to her pew.

Her lifted fan, to give a solemn air, Conceals her face, which pa.s.ses for a prayer: Curtsies to curtsies, then, with grace, succeed; Not one the fair omits, but at the creed.

Or if she joins the service, 'tis to speak; Thro' dreadful silence the pent heart might break; Untaught to bear it, women talk away To G.o.d himself, and fondly think they pray.

But sweet their accent, and their air refin'd; For they're before their Maker-and mankind: When ladies once are proud of praying well, Satan himself will toll the parish bell.

Acquainted with the world, and quite well bred, Drusa receives her visitants in bed; But, chaste as ice, this Vesta, to defy The very blackest tongue of calumny, When from the sheets her lovely form she lifts, She begs you just would turn you, while she shifts.

Those charms are greatest which decline the sight, That makes the banquet poignant and polite.

There is no woman, where there's no reserve; And 'tis on plenty your poor lovers starve.

But with a modern fair, meridian merit Is a fierce thing, they call a nymph of spirit.

Mark well the rollings of her flaming eye; And tread on tiptoe, if you dare draw nigh.

"Or if you take a lion by the beard,(15) Or dare defy the fell Hyrcanian pard, Or arm'd rhinoceros, or rough Russian bear,"

First make your will, and then converse with her.

This lady glories in profuse expense; And thinks distraction is magnificence.

To beggar her gallant, is some delight; To be more fatal still, is exquisite; Had ever nymph such reason to be glad?

In duel fell two lovers; one run mad.

Her foes their honest execrations pour; Her lovers only should detest her more.

Flavia is constant to her old gallant, And generously supports him in his want; But marriage is a fetter, is a snare, A h.e.l.l, no lady so polite can bear.

She's faithful, she's observant, and with pains Her angel brood of b.a.s.t.a.r.ds she maintains.

Nor least advantage has the fair to plead, But that of guilt, above the marriage-bed.

Amasia hates a prude, and scorns restraint; Whate'er she is, she'll not appear a saint: Her soul superior flies formality; So gay her air, her conduct is so free, Some might suspect the nymph not over good- Nor would they be mistaken, if they should.

Unmarried Abra puts on formal airs; Her cushion's threadbare with her constant prayers.

Her only grief is, that she cannot be At once engag'd in prayer and charity.

And this, to do her justice, must be said, "Who would not think that Abra was a maid?"

Some ladies are too beauteous to be wed; For where's the man that's worthy of their bed?

If no disease reduce her pride before, Lavinia will be ravish'd at threescore.

Then she submits to venture in the dark; And nothing now is wanting-but her spark.

Lucia thinks happiness consists in state; She weds an idiot, but she eats in plate.

The goods of fortune, which her soul possess, Are but the ground of unmade happiness; The rude material: wisdom add to this, Wisdom, the sole artificer of bliss; She from herself, if so compell'd by need, Of thin content can draw the subtle thread; But (no detraction to her sacred skill) If she can work in gold, 'tis better still.

If Tullia had been blest with half her sense, None could too much admire her excellence: But since she can make error shine so bright, She thinks it vulgar to defend the right.

With understanding she is quite o'errun; And by too great accomplishments undone: With skill she vibrates her eternal tongue, For ever most divinely in the wrong.

Naked in nothing should a woman be; But veil her very wit with modesty: Let man discover, let not her display, But yield her charms of mind with sweet delay.

For pleasure form'd, perversely some believe, To make themselves important, men must grieve.

Lesbia the fair, to fire her jealous lord, Pretends, the fop she laughs at, is ador'd.

In vain she's proud of secret innocence; The fact she fains were scarce a worse offence.

Mira, endow'd with every charm to bless, Has no design, but on her husband's peace: He lov'd her much; and greatly was he mov'd At small inquietudes in her he lov'd.

"How charming this!"-The pleasure lasted long; Now every day the fits come thick and strong: At last he found the charmer only feign'd; And was diverted when he should be pain'd.

What greater vengeance had the G.o.ds in store?

How tedious life, now she can plague no more!