let fops or fortune fly which way they will,
disdains all loss of tickets or codille;
spleen, vapours, or small-pox, above them all,
and mistress of herself tho' china fall.
And yet believe me, good as well as ill,
woman's at best a contradiction still.
Heav'n, when it strives to polish all it can
it's last best work, but forms a softer man;
picks from each sex to make the fav'rite blest,
your love of pleasures, our desire of rest;
blends, in exception to all gen'ral rules,
your taste of follies with our scorn of fools;
reserve with frankness, art with truth ally'd,
courage with softness, modesty with pride;
fix'd principles, with fancy ever new,
shakes altogether, and produces---you.
Be this a Woman's fame; with this unblest
toasts live a scorn, and queens may die a jest.
This Phoebus promis'd (I forget the year)
when those blue eyes first open'd on the sphere;
ascendant Phoebus watch'd that hour with care, 285
averted half your parents' simple pray'r,
and gave you beauty, but deny'd the pelf
that buys your sex a tyrant o'er itself.
The gen'rous god who wit and gold refines,
and ripens spirits as he ripens mines,
kept dross for duchesses, the world shall know it,
to you gave sense, good humour, and a poet.