( 4 )
But how, my Dearest Cloe, shall I set
My Pen to write, what I would fain forget?
Or name that lost thing LOVE, without a Tear,
Since so Debauch'd by ill-bred Customs here.
LOVE! the most Generous Passion of the Mind,
The softest Refuge Innocence can find:
The safe Director of unguided Youth,
Fraught with kind Wishes, and secur'd by Truth.
That Cordial Drop Heaven in our Cup has thrown,
To make the Nauceous Draught of Life go down:
On which one onely Blessing, God might Raise
In Lands of Atheists Subsidies of Praise.
For none did e're so dull and stupid prove,
But felt a God, and bless'd his Power in Love.
This onely Joy, for which poor we were made
Is grown like Play to be an arrant Trade:
The Rooks creep in; and it has got of late
As many little Cheats and Tricks as that.
But what yet more a Womans Heart would vex,
'Tis chiefly carried on by our own Sex:
Our silly Sex, who born like Monarchs, Free,
Turn Gipsies for a meaner Liberty,
And hate Restraint, tho' but from Infamy.
They call what ever is not Common, Nice,
And deaf to Natures Rules and Loves Advice,
Forsake the Pleasures, to pursue the Vice.
To an exact Perfection they have wrought,
The Action Love, the Passion is forgot:
'Tis below Wit they'll tell you to Admire,
And ev'n without approving, they Desire:
Their private wish obey the publick Voice,
'Twixt good and bad Whimsey decides, not Choice
Fashions grow up so fast, at Forms they strike,
They know what they would have, not what they like.
B——— is a Beauty, if some few agree
To call him so, the rest to that Degree
Affected are, that with their Ears they see.
Where I was Visiting the other Night,
Comes a Fair Lady with her humble Knight:
Who had prevail'd on her by her own Skill,
At his Request, tho' much against his Will.
To come to London———
As the Coach Stopp'd, we heard her Voice more loud
Than a Great-belly'd Woman's in a Croud:
Telling her Knight that her Affairs require,
He for some Hours Obsequiously retire.
My Pen to write, what I would fain forget?
Or name that lost thing LOVE, without a Tear,
Since so Debauch'd by ill-bred Customs here.
LOVE! the most Generous Passion of the Mind,
The softest Refuge Innocence can find:
The safe Director of unguided Youth,
Fraught with kind Wishes, and secur'd by Truth.
That Cordial Drop Heaven in our Cup has thrown,
To make the Nauceous Draught of Life go down:
On which one onely Blessing, God might Raise
In Lands of Atheists Subsidies of Praise.
For none did e're so dull and stupid prove,
But felt a God, and bless'd his Power in Love.
This onely Joy, for which poor we were made
Is grown like Play to be an arrant Trade:
The Rooks creep in; and it has got of late
As many little Cheats and Tricks as that.
But what yet more a Womans Heart would vex,
'Tis chiefly carried on by our own Sex:
Our silly Sex, who born like Monarchs, Free,
Turn Gipsies for a meaner Liberty,
And hate Restraint, tho' but from Infamy.
They call what ever is not Common, Nice,
And deaf to Natures Rules and Loves Advice,
Forsake the Pleasures, to pursue the Vice.
To an exact Perfection they have wrought,
The Action Love, the Passion is forgot:
'Tis below Wit they'll tell you to Admire,
And ev'n without approving, they Desire:
Their private wish obey the publick Voice,
'Twixt good and bad Whimsey decides, not Choice
Fashions grow up so fast, at Forms they strike,
They know what they would have, not what they like.
B——— is a Beauty, if some few agree
To call him so, the rest to that Degree
Affected are, that with their Ears they see.
Where I was Visiting the other Night,
Comes a Fair Lady with her humble Knight:
Who had prevail'd on her by her own Skill,
At his Request, tho' much against his Will.
To come to London———
As the Coach Stopp'd, we heard her Voice more loud
Than a Great-belly'd Woman's in a Croud:
Telling her Knight that her Affairs require,
He for some Hours Obsequiously retire.
I think
