’Flow from the rock, my flax! and swiftly flow,
  Pursue thy thread, the spindle runs below. 
  A creature fond and changing, fair and vain,
  The creature Woman, rises now to reign. 120
  New beauty blooms, a beauty form’d to fly;
  New love begins, a love produced to die;
  New parts distress the troubled scenes of life,
  The fondling mistress, and the ruling wife. 
  Men, born to labour, all with pains provide;
  Women have time to sacrifice to pride: 
  They want the care of man, their want they know,
  And dress to please with heart-alluring show,
  The show prevailing, for the sway contend,
  And make a servant where they meet a friend. 130

   Thus in a thousand wax-erected forts
  A loitering race the painful bee supports,
  From sun to sun, from bank to bank he flies,
  With honey loads his bag, with wax his thighs,
  Fly where he will, at home the race remain,
  Prune the silk dress, and murmuring eat the gain.

   Yet here and there we grant a gentle bride,
  Whose temper betters by the father’s side;
  Unlike the rest, that double human care,
  Fond to relieve, or resolute to share:  140
  Happy the man whom thus his stars advance! 
  The curse is general, but the blessing chance.’

   Thus sung the Sisters, while the gods admire
  Their beauteous creature, made for man, in ire;
  The young Pandora she, whom all contend
  To make too perfect not to gain her end: 
  Then bid the winds that fly to breathe the spring,
  Return to bear her on a gentle wing;
  With wafting airs the winds obsequious blow,
  And land the shining vengeance safe below. 150
  A golden coffer in her hand she bore,
  (The present treacherous, but the bearer more)
  ’Twas fraught with pangs; for Jove ordain’d above,
  That gold should aid, and pangs attend on love.

   Her gay descent the man perceived afar,
  Wondering he ran to catch the falling star;
  But so surprised, as none but he can tell,
  Who loved so quickly, and who loved so well. 
  O’er all his veins the wandering passion burns,
  He calls her nymph, and every nymph by turns. 160
  Her form to lovely Venus he prefers,
  Or swears that Venus must be such as hers. 
  She, proud to rule, yet strangely framed to tease,
  Neglects his offers while her airs she plays,
  Shoots scornful glances from the bended frown,
  In brisk disorder trips it up and down,
  Then hums a careless tune to lay the storm,
  And sits and blushes, smiles, and yields in form.

   ’Now take what Jove design’d, (she softly cried,)
  This box thy portion, and myself thy bride:’  170
  Fired with the prospect of the double charms,
  He snatch’d the box, and bride, with eager arms.