the bust
  And temple rise—­then fall again to dust. 
  Last night, her lord was all that’s good and great;
  A knave this morning, and his will a cheat. 
  Strange! by the means defeated of the ends,
  By spirit robbed of power, by warmth of friends,
  By wealth of followers! without one distress,
  Sick of herself through very selfishness! 
  Atossa, cursed with every granted prayer,
  Childless with all her children, wants an heir. 
  To heirs unknown descends th’ unguarded store,
  Or wanders, Heaven-directed, to the poor. 
  Pictures like these, dear Madam, to design,
  Asks no firm hand, and no unerring line;
  Some wandering touches, some reflected light,
  Some flying stroke alone can hit them right: 
  For how should equal colours do the knack? 
  Chameleons who can paint in white and black? 
  ’Yet Chloe sure was formed without a spot’—­
  Nature in her then erred not, but forgot. 
  ’With every pleasing, every prudent part,
  Say, what can Chloe want?’—­She wants a heart. 
  She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought;
  But never, never, reached one generous thought. 
  Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour,
  Content to dwell in decencies forever. 
  So very reasonable, so unmoved,
  As never yet to love, or to be loved. 
  She, while her lover pants upon her breast,
  Can mark the figures on an Indian chest;
  And when she sees her friend in deep despair,
  Observes how much a chintz exceeds mohair. 
  Forbid it Heaven, a favour or a debt
  She e’er should cancel—­but she may forget. 
  Safe is your secret still in Chloe’s ear;
  But none of Chloe’s shall you ever hear. 
  Of all her dears she never slandered one,
  But cares not if a thousand are undone. 
  Would Chloe know if you’re alive or dead? 
  She bids her footman put it in her head. 
  Chloe is prudent—­would you too be wise? 
  Then never break your heart when Chloe dies.

* * * * *

But grant in public men sometimes are shown,
A woman’s seen in private life alone: 
Our bolder talents in full light displayed;
Your virtues open fairest in the shade,
Bred to disguise, in public ’tis you hide;
There none distinguish ’twixt your shame or pride,
Weakness or delicacy, all so nice,
That each may seem a virtue or a vice. 
In men, we various ruling passions find;
In women two almost divide the kind;
Those, only fixed, they first or last obey,
The love of pleasure, and the love of sway.

* * * * *