"he Soul well-pleas'd, its own fair Picture loves, nd Confcience ratifies, what Heav'n approves,
Then Peace is fown within, the pregnant Seed
Quickens with active Life, and Bleffings breed;
The Face with focial Humour fhines, the Eye
Darts Joy, the Hand is ready to supply,
And Heay'n iş half obtain'd
IS true; unknowing of the distant Coast,
I ventur'd out, and in the Storm was loft.
With Ruins all the Sea was cover'd o'er,
And not one Wreck came floating to the
This foon difpers'd my Train of airy Schemes,
As Men, when wak'd, regret their golden Dreams;
All Night in boundless Luxury they reign,
Till Day brings back their Poverty again.
Such was my Fate; when I in Fancy roll'd O'er Heaps of vain imaginary Gold.
My Strephon then my Paffion fought to move,
And breath'd his Mercenary Vows and Love;
Charm'd with my Riches, and my Fortune's Slave,
Each New Subfcription a new Beauty gave.
(Lur'd by the Scent of Wealth, your Sex can come,
And Sigh their Souls out for a Female Plumb.
They find ftrange Charms in Equipage, and fix
Ten Thousand Beauties on a Coach and Six.)
To Strephons Sight my dazling Thousands rife,"
And pointed ev'ry Light'ning of my Eyes;
His Love by juft Degrees he could reveal,
It rofe with South-Sea, and with South-Sea fell.
So the Barometer obeys the Air,
Sinks to the Storm, but rifes in the Fair.
Ah me! Im forc'd from MERCURY to prove
At once the Cure, and Simile of Love.
But fee, and pity my unhappy State,
Weigh well, and change the Measures of my Fate;
When Stocks to fuch a narrow Channel ran,
His Love grew languid, and ebb'd back again;
Then all my Form of fome new Flaws was full,
And my paft Beauties turn'd to Ridicule.
My Charms grew naufeous in my Lover's Thoughts,
Whofe Fancy found imaginary Faults;
A Pimple came for ev'ry Pearl I fold,
My Lips, which he fo much ador'd of old,
Loft all their Rubies, when I loft my Gold.
Now the furprizing Change enhanc'd my Woes,
And as each Guinea fell, a Pimple rofe.
Yet ftill our Pride allow'd of no Decrease,
Our Hoops grew larger, as our Fortunes lefs.
Oh! that our Patriots had pleas'd to move,
Some kind Redress for Sufferers in Love.
But we frail WOMEN find it to our Coft,
There's no Redeemables in Love that's loft.
Sure Beauty's Goddefs, as the Poets tell,
Rofe from one Sea, but in another fell.
And here in vain is Cupid's Arrow sped,
Which never wounds but with a golden Head.
'Tis tedious to defcribe the Mourning Maid,
Tho' drefs'd in Silks, and flaming in Brocade;
Who fuffers for her Lover's cancell'd Vows,
Loft to all Hopes of Fortune, or a Spouse.
Where-e'er fhe turns her folitary Feet,
Some killing Object meets in ev'ry Street.
To no new Play, or Birth-Night can fhe gad,
Nor buy one Ticket for a Masquerade,
In vain I ogle, and my Eyes to me,
Serve to no other Purpose but to fee.
Or if to Church fometimes I chance to stray,
I find no other Bus'nefs but to Pray;
Or to long Homilies Attention keep,
Or feal my unavailing Eyes with Sleep.
No white-Hand Beaus their Eyes on Sylvia fix,
Drawn in a Hackney now, as once in Coach and Six;
But with an infolent unmindful Air,
Leave me to hand another from her Chair.
Rife then, and draw thy Pen in the Defence
Of our weak Sex and injur'd Innocence;
Lash with thy manly Eloquence their Crimes,
And be once more the Cenfor of the Times.
Be Thou the great Knight-Errant of the Fair,
And Shelter ev'ry Virgin with thy Care.
Let the ftern CATO in our Caufe engage,
And be for once the Gallant of the Age.
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