They little guefs, who at our arts are griev'd,
The perfect joy of being well deceiv'di;
Inquifitive as jealous cuckolds grow;

Rather than not be knowing, they will know
What, being known, creates their certain woe.
Women fhould thefe, of all mankind, avoid,
For wonder, by clear knowledge, is destroy'd..
Woman, who is an arrant bird of night,
Bold in the dusk, before a fool's dull fight
Muft fly, when Reason brings the glaring light.
But the kind eafy fool, apt to admire
Himself, trufts us; his follies all confpire
To flatter his, and favour our defire :

Vain of his proper merit, he with ease

Believes we love him beft, who beft can please ;
On him our grofs, dull, common flatteries pass,
Ever most happy when most made an ass;
Heavy to apprehend, though all mankind
Perceive us falfe, the fop himself is blind;
Who, doating on himfelf------

Thinks every one that fees him of his mind.

Thefe are true womens men----Here, forc'd to cease
Through want of breath, not will, to hold her peace,
She to the window runs, where she had spy'd
Her much-esteem'd dear friend, the monkey, ty'd ;
With forty fmiles, as many antic bows,
As if 't had been the lady of the house,
The dirty chattering monster she embrac'd,
And made it this fine tender speech at last :

Kifs

Kifs me, thou curious miniature of man;
How odd thou art, how pretty, how japan!
Oh! I could live and die with thee: then on,
For half an hour, in compliments she ran:
I took this time to think what Nature meant,
When this mixt thing into the world she sent,
So very wife, yet so impertinent :

One that knows every thing that God thought fit,
Should be an afs through choice, not want of wit;
Whofe foppery, without the help of sense,
Could ne'er have rofe to fuch an excellencex
Nature's as lame in making a true fop
As a philofopher; the very top
And dignity of fully we attain

By ftudious fearch and labour of the brain,
By obfervation, counsel, and deep thought :
God never made a coxcomb worth a groat,
We owe that name to industry and arts:
An eminent fool must be a fool of parts,
And fuch a one was fhe, who had turn'd o'er
As many books as men, lov'd much, read more,
Had a difcerning wit, to her was known
Every one's fault, or merit, but her own.
All the good qualities that ever bleft
A woman fo distinguish'd from the rest,
Except difcretion only, the poffeft.

But now, mon cher, dear Pug, fhe cries, adieu
And the difcourfe broke off does thus renew
You fimile to fee me, who the world perchance
Miftakes to have fome wit, fo far advance
X 4

}

The

The intereft of fools, that I approve

Their merit more than men of wit in love;
But in our fex too many proofs there are
Of fuch whom wits undo, and fools repair.
This, in my time, was so observ'd a rule,
Hardly a wench in town but had her fool;
The meaneft common flut, who long was grown
The jeft and fcorn of every pit buffoon,
Had yet left charms enough to have fubdued
Some fop or other, fond to be thought lewd.
Fofter could make an Irish lord a Nokes,
And Betty Morris had her city cokes.
A woman's ne'er fo ruin'd, but she can
Be still reveng'd on her undoer, man:
How loft foe'er, fhe'll find fome lover more
A lewd abandon'd fool than fhe a whore.
That wretched thing Corinna, who has run
Through all the feveral ways of being undone :
Cozen'd at first by love, and living then

By turning the too-dear-bought cheat on men:
Gay were the hours, and wing'd with joy they flew,
When first the town her early beauties knew ;
Courted, admir'd, and lov'd, with prefents fed,
Youth in her looks, and pleasure in her bed ;
Till fate, or her ill angel, thought it fit
To make her doat upon a man of wit;
Who found 'twas dull to love above a day,
Made his ill-natur'd jeft, and went away.
Now fcorn'd of all, forfaken and oppreft,
She's a memento mori to the reft:

Difeas'd, decay'd, to take up half a crown
Muft mortgage her long scarf and mantua gown ;
Poor creature, who, unheard-of, as a fly-
In fome dark hole must all the winter lie,...
And want and dirt endure a whole half-year,
That for one month she tawdry may appear.
In Eafter-term she gets her a new gown ;
When my young master's worship comes to town,
From pedagogue and mother just set free,
The heir and hopes of a great family;

Who with strong beer and beef the country rules,
And ever fince the Conqueft have been fools;
And now, with careful prospect to maintain
This character, left croffing of the strain
Should mend the booby breed, his friends provide
A coufin of his own to be his bride :

With an eftate, no wit, and a young wife,
The folid comforts of a coxcomb's life,
Dunghill and pease forfook, he comes to town,
Turns fpark, learns to be lewd, and is undone;
Nothing fuits worse with vice than want of sense,
Fools are ftill wicked at their own expence.
This o'er-grown school-boy lost Corinna wins ;
At the firft dafh to make an afs begins:
Pretends to like a man that has not known
The vanities or vices of the town ;
Fresh is the youth, and faithful in his love,
Eager of joys which he does feldom prove;

Healthful

Healthful and ftrong, he does no pains endure
But what the fair-one he adores can cure;
Grateful for favours, does the sex esteem,
And libels none for being kind to him;
Then of the lewdness of the town complains,
Rails at the wits and atheists, and maintains
'Tis better than good fenfe, than power or wealth,
To have a blood untainted, youth, and health.
The unbred puppy, who had never feen

A creature look so gay, or talk so fine,
Believes, then falls in love, and then in debt;
Mortgages all, ev'n to the ancient feat,
To buy his miftrefs a new houfe for life,
To give her plate and jewels, robs his wife;
And when to th' height of fondness he is grown,
'Tis time to poifon him, and all's her own:
Thus meeting in her common arms his fate,
He leaves her baftard heir to his estate;
And, as the race of fuch an owl deserve,
His own dull lawful progeny he starves.
Nature (that never made a thing in vain,
But does each infect to fome end ordain)
Wifely provokes kind keeping fools, no doubt,
To patch up vices men of wit wear out.

Thus he ran on two hours, fome grains of fenfe Still mixt with follies of impertinence.

But now 'tis time I should fome pity show
To Cloe, fince I cannot choose but know,
Readers must reap what dullest writers sow.

By