And there, a naked Leda with a swan. 
  Let then the fair one beautifully cry,
  In Magdalen’s loose hair and lifted eye,
  Or dressed in smiles of sweet Cecilia shine,
  With simpering angels, palms, and harps divine;
  Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it,
  If folly grow romantic, I must paint it.

* * * * *

  Flavia’s a wit, has too much sense to pray;
  To toast our wants and wishes, is her way;
  Nor asks of God, but of her stars, to give
  The mighty blessing, ‘while we live, to live.’ 
  Then for all death, that opiate of the soul! 
  Lucretia’s dagger, Rosamonda’s bowl. 
  Say, what can cause such impotence of mind? 
  A spark too fickle, or a spouse too kind. 
  Wise wretch! with pleasures too refined to please;
  With too much spirit to be e’er at ease;
  With too much quickness ever to be taught;
  With too much thinking to have common thought: 
  You purchase pain with all that joy can give,
  And die of nothing but a rage to live. 
  Turn then from wits; and look on Simo’s mate,
  No ass so meek, no ass so obstinate;
  Or her, that owns her faults, but never mends,
  Because she’s honest, and the best of friends;
  Or her, whose life the Church and scandal share,
  Forever in a passion, or a prayer;
  Or her, who laughs at hell, but (like her Grace)
  Cries, ‘Ah! how charming, if there’s no such place!’
  Or who in sweet vicissitude appears
  Of mirth and opium, ratafie and tears,
  The daily anodyne, and nightly draught,
  To kill those foes to fair ones, time and thought. 
  Woman and fool are two hard things to hit;
  For true no-meaning puzzles more than wit. 
  But what are these to great Atossa’s mind? 
  Scarce once herself, by turns all womankind! 
  Who, with herself, or others, from her birth
  Finds all her life one warfare upon earth;
  Shines, in exposing knaves, and painting fools,
  Yet is, whate’er she hates and ridicules. 
  No thought advances, but her eddy brain
  Whisks it about, and down it goes again. 
  Full sixty years the world has been her trade,
  The wisest fool much time has ever made. 
  From loveless youth to unrespected age,
  No passion gratified except her rage. 
  So much the fury still outran the wit,
  The pleasure missed her, and the scandal hit. 
  Who breaks with her, provokes revenge from hell,
  But he’s a bolder man who dares be well. 
  Her every turn with violence pursued,
  Nor more a storm her hate than gratitude: 
  To that each passion turns, or soon or late;
  Love, if it makes her yield, must make her hate: 
  Superiors? death! and equals? what a curse! 
  But an inferior not dependent? worse. 
  Offend her, and she knows not to forgive;
  Oblige her, and she’ll hate you while you live;
  But die, and she’ll adore you—­then