At your Entreaty, I at last have writ
This whimsy, that has nigh nonplused my wit:
The Toy I've long enjoyed, if it may
Be called t'Enjoy, a thing we wish away;
But yet no more its Character can give,
Than tell the Minutes that I have to Live:
'Tis a fantastic Ill, a loathed Disease,
That can no Sex, no Age, no Person please:
Men strive to gain it, but the way they choose
T'obtain their Wish, that and the Wish doth lose;
Our Thoughts are still uneasy, till we know
What 'tis, and why it is desirèd so:
But th' first unhappy Knowledge that we boast,
Is that we know, the valued Trifle's lost:
Thou dull Companion of our active Years,
That chill'st our warm Blood with thy frozen Fears:
How is it likely thou shouldst long endure,
When Thought itself thy Ruin may procure?
Thou short-lived Tyrant, that Usurp'st a Sway
O'er Woman-kind, though none thy Pow'r obey,
Except th'Ill-natured, Ugly, Peevish, Proud,
And these indeed, thy Praises Sing aloud:
But what's the Reason they Obey so well?
Because they want the Power to Rebel:
But I forget, or have my Subject lost:
Alas! thy Being's Fancy at the most:
Though much desired, 'tis but seldom Men
Court the vain Blessing from a Woman's Pen.