Ire per Ignes,
Et gladios ausim. Neque ad hoc tamen ignibus ullis,
Aut gladiis opus est; opus est mihi Crine. -
Ovid. Met. Lib.

We sage Cartesians, who profess
Our selves sworn Foes to Emptiness,
Assert that Souls a Tip-toe stand
On what we call the Pineal Gland;
As Weather-Cocks on Spires are plac'd,
To turn the quicker with each Blast.

This granted, can you think it strange
We all shou'd be so prone to change;
Ev'n from the Go-Cart, 'till we wear
A Sattin Cap i'th' Elbow Chair?
The Follies that the Child began,
Custom makes currant in the Man;
And firm by Livery and Seisin,
Holds the Fee-simple of his Reason.

But still the Gusts of Love we find
Blow strongest on a Woman's Mind:
Nor need I learnedly pursue
The latent Cause, th'Effect is true;
For proof of which, in manner ample,
I mean to give you one Example.
Upon a time, (for so my Nurse,
Heav'n rest her Bones! began Discourse
A lovely Nymph, and just Nineteen,
Began to languish with the Spleen.
She who had shone at Balls and Play,
In Gold Brocade extremely gay,
All on a sudden grew precise,
Declaim'd against the Growth of Vice,
A very Prude in half a Year;
And most believ'd she was sincere.
Necklace of Pearl no more she wears,
That's sanctify'd to count her Pray'rs.
Venus, and all her naked Loves,
The Reformado Nymph removes;
And Magdalen, with Saints and Martyrs,
Was plac'd in their respective Quarters.
Nor yet content, she cou'd not bear
The Rankness of the publick Air;
'Twas so infected with the Vice
Of luscious Songs, and Lover's Sighs,
So most devoutly wou'd be gone,
And strait profess her self a Nun.

A Youth of Breeding and Address,
And call him Thyrsis if you please,
Who had some Wealth to recompense
His slender Dividend of Sense:
Yet cou'd with little Thought and Care
Write tender Things to please the Fair;
And then successively did grow
From a half-wit, a finish'd Beau;
(For Fops thus naturally rise,
As Maggots turn to Butterflies.)
This Spark, as Story tells, before
Had held with Madam an Amour;
Which he resolving to pursue,
Exactly took the proper Cue;
And on the Wings of Love he flies
To Lady Abbess in Disguise;
And tells her he had brought th'Advowson
Of Soul and Body to dispose on.
Old Sanctity, who nothing fear'd
In Petticoats without a Beard,
Fond of a Proselyte, and Fees,
Admits the Fox among the Geese.

Here Duty, Wealth, and Honour prove,
Tho' three to one, too weak for Love:
And to describe the War throughout,
Wou'd make a glorious Piece no doubt:
Where moral Virtues might be slain,
And rise, and fight, and fall again:
Love shou'd a bloody Myrtle wear,
And, like Camilla, fierce and fair,
The Nun shou'd charge. - But I forbear.
All human Joys, tho' sweet in tasting,
Are seldom (more's the Pity!) lasting:
The Nymph had Qualms, her Cheeks were pale,
Which others thought th' Effects of Zeal.
But she, poor she, began to doubt,
(Best knowing what she'd been about
The Marriage Earnest-penny lay
And burnt her Pocket, as we say.
She now invokes, to ease her Soul,
The Dagger and the poison'd Bowl;
And, self-condemn'd for Breach of Vow,
To lose her Life and Honour too,
Talk'd in as tragical a Strain, as
Your craz'd Monimia's and Roxana's.

But as she in her Cell lay sighing,
Distracted, weeping, drooping, dying,
The Fiend, (who never wants Address
To succour Damsels in Distress)
Appearing, told her he perceiv'd
The fatal Cause for which she griev'd;
But promis'd her en Cavalier,
She shou'd be freed from all her Fear;
And with her Thyrsis lead a Life
Devoid of all domestick Strife,
If she wou'd sign a certain Scrawl -
Ay, that she wou'd, if that was all.
She sign'd, and he engag'd to do
Whate'er she pleas'd to set him to.

The Criticks must excuse me now;
They both were freed, no matter how:
For when we Epic Writers use
Machines, to disengage the Muse,
We're clean acquit of all Demands,
The Matter's left in abler Hands;
And if they cannot loose the Knot,
Shou'd we be censur'd? I think not.
The Scene thus alter'd, both were gay,
For Pomp and Pleasures who but they,
Who might do ev'ry thing but pray?
Madam in her gilt Chariot flaunted,
And Pug brought ev'ry thing she wanted;
A Slave devoted to her Will:
But Women will be wav'ring still.
Ev'n Vice without Variety
Their squeamish Appetites will cloy.
And having stol'n from Lady Abbess
One of our merry modern Rabbies,
She found a Trick she thought wou'd pass,
And prove the Devil but an Ass.

His next Attendance happen'd right
Amidst a moonless stormy Night,
When Madam and her Spouse together,
Guess'd at his coming by the Weather.
He came: To Night, says he, I drudge
To fetch a Heriot for a Judge;
A gouty nine-i'th' hundred Knave:
But, Madam, do you want your Slave?
I need not presently be gone,
Because the Doctors have not done.
A rosy Vicar and a Quack
Repuls'd me in my last Attack;
But all in vain, for mine he is;
A Fig for both the Faculties.

The Dame produc'd a single Hair,
But whence it came I cannot swear;
Yet this I will affirm is true,
It curl'd like any Bottle-Scrue.
Sir Nic, quoth she, you know us all,
We Ladies are fantastical:
You see this Hair - Yes, Madam - Pray
In Presence of my Husband stay,
And make it strait: or else you grant
Our solemn League and Covenant
Is void in Law. - It is, I own it:
And so he sets to work upon it.

He tries, not dreaming of a Cheat,
If wetting wou'd not do the Feat:
And 'twas, in truth, a proper Notion;
But still it kept th' elastic Motion.
Well! more ways may be found than one,
To kill a Witch that will not drown.
If I, quoth he, conceive its Nature,
This Hair has flourish'd nigh the Water.
'Tis crisp'd with Cold, perhaps, aad then
The Fire will make it strait again.
In haste he to the Fire applies it,
And turns it round and round, and eyes it.
Heigh jingo, worse than 'twas before!
The more it warms it twirls the more.
He stamp'd his cloven Foot, and chaf'd;
The Husband and the Lady laugh'd.

Howe'er he fancy'd sure enough
He shou'd not find it Hammer-proof.
No Cyclops e'er at work was warmer,
At forging Thunder-bolts or Armour,
Than Satan was: but all in vain;
Again he beats. - It curls again!
At length he bellow'd in a Rage,
This Hair will take me up an Age.
This take an Age! the Husband swore,
Z__ds Betty has five hundred more.
More! Take your Bond, quoth Pug; adieu,
'Tis Loss of Time to ply for you.