One’mong these belles had to the altar led,
          A painter, much esteemed, and who had bread. 
          What more was requisite!—­he lived at ease,
          And by his occupation sought to please. 
          A happy woman all believed his wife;
          The husband’s talents pleased her to the life: 
          For gallantry howe’er he was renowned,
          And many am’rous dames, who dwelled around,
          Would seek the artist with a double aim: 
          So all our chronicles record his fame. 
          But since much penetration ’s not my boast,
          I just believe—­what’s requisite at most.

          WHENE’ER the painter had in hand a fair,
          He’d jest his wife, and laugh with easy air;
          But Hymen’s rights proceeding as they ought,
          With jealous fears her breast was never fraught. 
          She might indeed repay his tricks in kind,
          And gratify, in soft amours, her mind,
          Except that she less confidence had shown,
          And was not led to him the truth to own.

          Amongthe men attracted by her smiles,
          Two neighbours, much delighted with her wiles;
          Were often tempted, by her sprightly wit,
          To listen to her chat, and with her sit;
          For she had far the most engaging mien,
          Of any charmer that around was seen. 
          Superior understanding she possessed;
          Though fond of laughter, frolick, fun, and jest. 
          She to her husband presently disclosed
          The love these cit-gallants to her proposed;
          Both known for arrant blockheads through the town,
          And ever boasting of their own renown. 
          To him she gave their various speeches, tones,
          Each silly air:  their tears, and sighs, and groans;
          They’d read, or rather heard, we may believe,
          That, when in love, with sighs fond bosoms heave. 
          Their utmost to succeed these coxcombs tried,
          And seemed convinced they should not be denied;
          A common cause they would the business hold,
          And what one knew the other must be told. 
          Whichever first a favour might obtain,
          Should tell his happiness to t’other swain.

          Yefair ’tis thus they oft your kindness treat: 
          The pleasure that he wished alone is sweet. 
          Love, is no more; of t’other, laid in earth,
          We’ve here no traces scarcely from the birth. 
          You serve for sport and prey, to giddy youth,
          Devoid of talents, principles, and truth. 
          ’Tis right they should suppose, still two are found;
          Who take their course continually round. 
          The first that in your pleasure grounds appears;
          I’d have you, on his wings, to use the shears.