A Collection of Original Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

To thee so skill'd in ev'ry softer art,
To form th'intrigue, and lure the female heart,
The Muse obedient sweeps the sounding wire,
And suits the subject to thy fond desire.
Light as tho vane that shifts with ev'ry wind,
Women are to inconstancy inclin'd;
Nor this a blemish; since by nature's laws,
Successive changes most perfection cause.
From light and shade life's gayest scenes arise,
Nor always is it happy—to be wise;
Mix'd is our lot in what we lose or gain;
Hope,—fear,—in human breasts, alternate reign,
Grief springs from joy, and pleasure grows on pain.

116

If we allow the systems of the wise,
The purest air, for ever shifting, flies;
Time in his rapid progress all devours,—
Can art impede the nimbly dancing hours?

This fragile globe around its axis moves,
And the chaste moon inconstancy approves;
Else, why her changes? why her monthly wain?
Nor she alone, but all the starry train;
The genial sun, and yonder blazon'd sky,
For ever move, impervious to the eye.

Oh! thou of gentle manners, taste refin'd!
Variety's the darling of the mind;
For greatly spurning ev'ry servile tie,
Inconstant still, from joy to joy you fly;
Blest each new day with some new happy love;
You emulate in pleasure thund'ring Jove;
Nor form'd alone to win the female ear,
Poignant your wit, your judgment, too, is clear;

117

Whether more solid argument you chuse,
Or court with sprightly vein, the willing muse;
Whether instructive hist'ry you pursue;
Or deep philosophy attracts your view.
A truce—the Muse withholds the loosen'd rein,
And female praise awaits your ready pen.

What gifts soe'er our lordly sex may boast,
In woman's brighter excellence are lost;
For o'er her acts inconstancy presides,
Her dictates governs, and her footsteps guides.

The purest air corrupts, when close confin'd;
And poison in the standing pool you'll find:
Gold, in the miser's coffer rusty grows,
Disease, inaction on the body throws.

Then why in woman should it counted be,
A vice to patronize inconstancy?
Alas! the cause is easily explor'd,
By him, who ever has like thee ador'd:

118

Oft you have known them trap th'unwary heart,
Gracing with truth, dissimulation's art:
Perhaps they lov'd; if worthier objects rise,
You cannot blame them, to withdraw the prize,

This you call falshood, yet you will excuse
The jugler's gambols, which your sense abuse;
Nay secret pleasure find in being beguil'd;
Why then should female craft be treach'ry stil'd?

What can this light capricious humour mean?
Would you still have your mistress neat and clean;
Or else be doom'd for ever to embrace,
A nymph with cloath sun chang'd, and unwash'd face?

Then lov'd inconstancy no longer blame,
But learn to value right the fickle dame!

Sages affix a motion to the sun,
Describe each course the planets are to run;
And Luna's age is known to ev'ry swain,
Who tends his bleating flocks upon the plain.

119

But tell me, can the deepest learning shew,
The changes female hearts can undergo?
In this they, stars, and sun, and moon excel,
No human wisdom can their motions tell;
When knowledge vainly tries, to form a rule
For female minds;—ev'n knowledge is a fool.
Nor can the laws of art, or nature fix,
Nor wise philosophy, the wondrous sex:
By these 'tis prov'd, that light things upward tend.
And heavy bodies centrally descend;
But woman's nature contradicts them all,
For she that's lightest, most inclines to fall.

Woman's a science, he who studies most,
Shall in the end find all his labours lost;
Wisdom's ambition, and the pride of wit,
Still stoop to her, and, as they ought, submit.

Fools, in the attempt to win her, are made wise
The sage turns fool; who the adventure tries;

120

When grave philosophers against them write;
Say—is it wisdom guides them? no, 'tis spite—
That sophs so deeply learn'd in ancient lore,
Cannot the dephs of woman-kind explore.

'Old age condemns them, because years destroy,
The pow'r, tho' not the itching, to enjoy.

Why does Malvolio libel them?—he knows
In his own nature, nothing lovely grows;
He but inveighs, because he cannot gain;
He rails, because he never can obtain;
Vainly would he endeavour to persuade
He knows their wiles—but when the truth's betray'd,
Too plain it seems to all, he never knew
The love of woman, whether feign'd or true;
None of the lofty sex e'r stoop'd so low;
Hence then his gall, and rank invectives flow.
She, like the eagle, seeks on high to tow'r,
And tries on nobler game her dazling pow'r;

121

Steps o'er the wretch, should he her course retard;
Such insolence contempt should still reward.

Sure he inconstancy could never prove,
Whom never female honour'd with her love.

Happy it is, for such as these, to find,
Some females to variety inclin'd;
For whim, not choice, may sometimes give them charms,
And love of change, with beauty fill their arms.

Why to one man, should woman be confin'd?
Why not unfetter'd, like his freeborn mind?
Is it not better she should numbers bless?
All smell the rose—but are its sweets the less?
Besides, restriction palls the jaded taste;
And in one man few virtues can be trac'd;

If all should in one prodigy unite,
Could such a monster give the least delight?

122

As well might we endure Sol's raging beams,
And bear, of hot, or cold, the fierce extreams—
Can there be order, where such numbers meet;
Or worth be minded, in a crouded street?

Henceforth, uncensur'd, then, let woman range,
And due reflection be a friend to change.

The chain of causes upon change depends,
If rest invade it, then all order ends;
Confusion's o'er the face of nature hurl'd,
And chaos rushes o'er a shatter'd world.

Those nearest still to bright perfection soar,
Who the most vary'd scenes of life run o'er,
That woman does, is prov'd beyond a jest;
Then woman is of nature's works the best.

Dulce est desipere in loco. Hor.