 | Alexander Pope: Minor poems |  |
286
SYLVIA,
A FRAGMENT
Sylvia my Heart in wond'rous wise alarm'd,
Aw'd without Sense, and without Beauty charm'd,
But some odd Graces and fine Flights she had,
Was just not ugly, and was just not mad;
Her Tongue still run, on credit from her Eyes,
More pert than witty, more a Wit than wise.
Good Nature, she declar'd it, was her Scorn,
Tho' 'twas by that alone she could be born.
Affronting all, yet fond of a good Name,
A Fool to Pleasure, yet a Slave to Fame;
Now coy and studious in no Point to fall,
Now all agog for D---y at a Ball:
Now deep in Taylor and the Book of Martyrs,
Now drinking Citron with his Gr--- and Ch---
Aw'd without Sense, and without Beauty charm'd,
But some odd Graces and fine Flights she had,
Was just not ugly, and was just not mad;
Her Tongue still run, on credit from her Eyes,
More pert than witty, more a Wit than wise.
Good Nature, she declar'd it, was her Scorn,
Tho' 'twas by that alone she could be born.
287
A Fool to Pleasure, yet a Slave to Fame;
Now coy and studious in no Point to fall,
Now all agog for D---y at a Ball:
Now deep in Taylor and the Book of Martyrs,
Now drinking Citron with his Gr--- and Ch---
Men, some to Business, some to Pleasure take,
But ev'ry Woman's in her Soul a Rake.
Frail, fev'rish Sex! their Fit now chills, now burns;
Atheism and Superstition rule by Turns;
And the meer Heathen in her carnal Part,
Is still a sad good Christian at her Heart.
But ev'ry Woman's in her Soul a Rake.
Frail, fev'rish Sex! their Fit now chills, now burns;
Atheism and Superstition rule by Turns;
And the meer Heathen in her carnal Part,
Is still a sad good Christian at her Heart.
| Alexander Pope: Minor poems | |