 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
122
SONG.
[The wicked wits, as fancy hits]
I
The wicked wits, as fancy hits,All satyrise the Fair;
In prose and rhime, and strains sublime,
Their foibles they declare;
The kind are bold; the chaste are cold;
These prudish; those too free;
Ye curious men, come tell us then,
What shou'd a woman be!
II
But hard's the task, and vain to ask,Where optics are untrue;
The muse shall here th'indicted clear,
And prove the crimes on you:
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On whom his wish was plac'd;
The sool deny'd, affects the pride,
And rails to be in taste.
III
But not like these, the men of bliss,Their sure criterion fix;
No; wisdom cries, my sons arise,
And vindicate the sex!
'Tis theirs to prove those sweets of love,
Which others never share;
And evidence, that none have sense,
But who adore the fair.
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IV
Ye blooming race, with ev'ry grace,Celestially imprest!
'Tis yours to quell the cares that dwell
Within the human breast;
At beauty's voice, our souls rejoice,
And rapture wakes to birth;
And Jove design'd th'enchanting kind,
To form a heav'n on earth.
V
Oh, ev'ry art to win the heart,Ye dear Inspirers try;
Each native charm, with fashion arm,
And let love's light'nings fly;
And hence, ye grave, your counsel save,
Which youth but sets at nought;
For woman still will have her will;
And so I think she ought.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |