Sidor som bilder

Then if bright Honour on her craggy seat Aloft displays unveiled her radiant face, And beckons to advance, undaunted then Attempt the dangerous enterprise, and climb The rugged heights to grasp the rich reward.




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WHILE ambling wits in courtly phrase
Bedeck poor Woman with vain praise,
Without variety prolong
Their aye-encomiastic song,
While they the sex at once exalt
To perfect creatures, all sans fault,
And bid their perfumed flatteries rise
Till choaked by fumes, poor Reason dies,
Dear Will! let you and I explore
That surly page of ancient lore
In which the blunt Naumachian lay
Holds every error up to day;
Nor spares one vice, though every grace
Adorns its fair possessor's face.
And some like-honest bard (but who
I cannot swear or say I know)


Sings, “ Woman is most like the Moon ;"
And though I wish not to lampoon
The fairest part of the creation,
Much though I hate all defamation,
Dear Will, in justice I must own
That some resemblance may be shown.
I whisper this when I survey
The fashionables of the day,
Whom modes and varied whims have led,
In that rank hot-house, custom, bred.

And to begin..... We know her light The Moon ne'er gives but in the night, And that her ladyship doth cover Her face up when the night is over; So modern Madams ne'er display Their beauties to the eye of day, But sleep till, laid in Thetis' lap, Dan Phæbus takes his wonted nap: When Night puts on her sable clout, Forth rush the dames to ball or rout, To put reports in circulation, Or way-lay a friend's reputation, To give a pointed zest to slander, And kill with ill-affected candour.

Again.... 'Tis seldom that we see The Sun and Moon in company ;

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