Why then declare good-nature is her scorn,
When 'tis by that alone she can be borne?
Why pique all mortals, yet affect a name?
A fool to pleasure, yet a slave to fame:
Now deep in Taylor and the Book of Martyrs,
Now drinking citron with his grace and Chartres:
Now conscience chills her, and now passion burns;
And atheism and religion take their turns:
A very
heathen in the carnal part;
Yet still a sad, good christian at her heart.

66

70

75

See sin in state, majestically drunk; Proud as a peeress, prouder as a punk; Chaste to her husband, frank to all beside; A teeming mistress, but a barren bride. What then? let blood and body bear the fault; Her head's untouch'd, that noble seat of thought: Such this day's doctrine: in another fit She sins with poets through pure love of wit. What has not fired her bosom or her brain? Cæsar and Tall-boy, Charles and Charlemagne. As Helluo, late dictator of the feast, The nose of haut goût, and the tip of taste, Critiqued your wine, and analysed your meat, Yet on plain pudding deign'd at home to eat ;So Philomedé, lecturing all mankind On the soft passion, and the taste refined, The address, the delicacy,-stoops at once, And makes her hearty meal upon a dunce.

Flavia's a wit; has too much sense to pray: To toast our wants and wishes, is her way;

80

85

3 So Philomedé. Probably meant for Henrietta, daughter of the celebrated duchess of Marlborough.

Nor asks of God, but of her stars, to give

The mighty blessing, 'While we live, to live.' 90
Then all for death, that opiate of the soul!
Lucretia's dagger, Rosamonda's bowl.
Say, what can cause such impotence of mind?
A spark too fickle, or a spouse too kind.
Wise wretch! with pleasures too refined to please;
With too much spirit to be e'er at ease;
With too much quickness ever to be taught;
With too much thinking to have common thought;
You purchase pain with all that joy can give,
And die of nothing but a rage to live.

96

100

Turn then from wits, and look on Simo's mate;

No ass so meek, no ass so obstinate:

Or her, that owns her faults, but never mends, Because she's honest, and the best of friends: Or her, whose life the church and scandal share, For ever in a passion or a prayer:

106

Or her, who laughs at hell, but, like her grace, Cries, Ah! how charming if there's no such place!'

Or who in sweet vicissitude appears,

Of mirth and opium, ratafia and tears,

The daily anodyne, and nightly draught,

110

To kill those foes to fair ones, time and thought.
Woman and fool are two hard things to hit ;
For true no-meaning puzzles more than wit.
But what are these to great Atossa's mind? 115
Scarce once herself, by turns all womankind!

108 Cries, Ah, how charming. The duchess of Montague. 115 Great Atossa. Atossa was the daughter of Cyrus, sister of Cambyses, and wife of Cyrus. Whether it were for those high relationships, or her violence of temper, that Pope chose

120

125

Who, with herself, or others, from her birth
Finds all her life one warfare upon earth:
Shines in exposing knaves, and painting fools;
Yet is whate'er she hates and ridicules:
No thought advances, but her eddy brain
Whisks it about, and down it goes again.
Full sixty years the world has been her trade;
The wisest fool much time has ever made.
From loveless youth to unrespected age,
No passion gratified except her rage.
So much the fury still outran the wit,
The pleasure miss'd her, and the scandal hit.
Who breaks with her provokes revenge from hell,
But he's a bolder man who dares be well.
Her every turn with violence pursued,
No more a storm her hate than gratitude :
To that each passion turns, or soon or late;
Love, if it makes her yield, must make her hate:
Superiors? death! and equals? what a curse! 135
But an inferior not dependent? worse.
Offend her, and she knows not to forgive;
Oblige her, and she 'll hate you while you live:

130

the Persian princess as the representative of the most celebrated woman of his day, the wife of the great duke of Marlborough, must now be left to conjecture. Walpole, in his pleasantry, remarks of her Memoirs, that, though they are rather the annals of a wardrobe than of a reign, they retain those sallies of wit which fourscore years of arrogance could not fail to produce in so fantastic an understanding one sees exactly how Europe and the back-stairs took their places in her imagination. The revolution left no impression on her mind, but of queen Mary turning up bed-clothes; and the protestant hero, but of a selfish glutton, who devoured a dish of peas from his sister-in-law! The queen gave her a picture in enamel set with diamonds: the duchess took off the diamonds, and gave the picture to a Mrs. Higgins to be sold.'

140

But die, and she 'll adore you: then the bust
And temple rise, then fall again to dust.
Last night, her lord was all that's good and great;
A knave this morning, and his will a cheat.
Strange! by the means defeated of the ends;
By spirit robb'd of power, by warmth of friends,
By wealth of followers! without one distress, 145
Sick of herself through very selfishness!
Atossa, cursed with every granted prayer,
Childless with all her children, wants an heir.
To heirs unknown descends the unguarded store;
Or wanders, heaven-directed, to the poor.

150

155

Pictures like these, dear madam, to design, Asks no firm hand and no unerring line; Some wandering touches, some reflected light, Some flying stroke alone can hit them right: For how could equal colors do the knack? Cameleons who can paint in white and black? 'Yet Chloe sure was form'd without a spot.'Nature in her then err'd not, but forgot. With every pleasing, every prudent part, Say, what can Chloe want?'-She wants a heart. She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought; But never, never, reach'd one generous thought: Virtue she finds too painful an endeavor, Content to dwell in decencies for ever. So very reasonable, so unmoved,

As never yet to love or to be loved.

159

165

She, while her lover pants upon her breast,
Can mark the figures on an Indian chest;
And when she sees her friend in deep despair,
Observes how much a chintz exceeds mohair. 170

175

Forbid it, Heaven, a favor or a debt
She e'er should cancel!-but she may forget.
Safe is your secret still in Chloe's ear;
But none of Chloe's shall you ever hear.
Of all her dears she never slander'd one,
But cares not if a thousand are undone.
Would Chloe know if you 're alive or dead?
She bids her footman put it in her head.
Chloe is prudent: would you too be wise?
Then never break your heart when Chloe dies.
One certain portrait may, I grant, be seen, 181
Which Heaven has varnish'd out, and made a
queen:

The same for ever! and described by all

With truth and goodness, as with crown and ball.

Poets heap virtues, painters gems at will;

185

And show their zeal, and hide their want of

skill.

'Tis well but, artists! who can paint or write,

:

To draw the naked is your true delight.
That robe of quality so struts and swells,
None see what parts of nature it conceals:
The exactest traits of body or of mind
We owe to models of a humble kind.

190

If Queensbury to strip there's no compelling,
'Tis from a handmaid we must take a Helen.
From peer or bishop 'tis no easy thing
To draw the man who loves his God or king:

195

179 Chloe is prudent. Lady Suffolk. Pope dining at her table heard her tell one of the footmen to remind her, to send to know how Mrs. Blount, who was ill, had passed the night.