Essay on Man

EPISTLE II.

TO A LA­DY.

OF THE CHAR­AC­TERS OF WOM­EN.

Noth­ing so true as what you once let fall, “Most wom­en have no char­ac­ters at all.” Mat­ter too soft a last­ing mark to bear, And best dis­tin­guished by black, brown, or fair. How many pic­tures of one nymph we view, All how un­like each oth­er, all how true! Ar­ca­dia’s count­ess, here, in er­mined pride, Is, there, Pas­to­ra by a foun­tain side. Here Fan­nia, leer­ing on her own good man, 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.

Come then, the colours and the ground pre­pare! Dip in the rain­bow, trick her off in air; Choose a firm cloud, be­fore it fall, and in it Catch, ere she change, the Cyn­thia of this minute.

Ru­fa, whose eye, quick-​glanc­ing o’er the park At­tracts each light gay me­te­or of a spark, Agrees as ill with Ru­fa study­ing Locke, As Sap­pho’s di­amonds with her dirty smock; Or Sap­pho at her toi­let’s greasy task, With Sap­pho fra­grant at an evening masque: So morn­ing in­sects that in muck be­gun, Shine, buzz, and fly-​blow in the set­ting sun.

How soft is Sil­ia! fear­ful to of­fend; The frail one’s ad­vo­cate, the weak one’s friend: To her, Cal­ista proved her con­duct nice; And good Sim­pli­cius asks of her ad­vice. Sud­den, she storms! she raves! You tip the wink, But spare your cen­sure; Sil­ia does not drink. All eyes may see from what the change arose, All eyes may see–a pim­ple on her nose.

Pa­pil­lia, wed­ded to her am’rous spark, Sighs for the shades–“How charm­ing is a park!” A park is pur­chased, but the fair he sees All bathed in tears–“Oh, odi­ous, odi­ous trees!”

Ladies, like var­ie­gat­ed tulips show; ‘Tis to their changes half their charms we owe; Fine by de­fect, and del­icate­ly weak, Their hap­py spots the nice ad­mir­er take, ‘Twas thus Ca­lyp­so once each heart alarmed, Awed with­out virtue, with­out beau­ty charmed; Her tongue be­witched as odd­ly as her eyes, Less wit than mim­ic, more a wit than wise; Strange graces still, and stranger flights she had, Was just not ug­ly, and was just not mad; Yet ne’er so sure our pas­sion to cre­ate, As when she touched the brink of all we hate.

Nar­cis­sa’s na­ture, tol­er­ably mild, To make a wash, would hard­ly stew a child; Has even been proved to grant a lover’s prayer, And paid a trades­man once to make him stare; Gave alms at East­er, in a Chris­tian trim, And made a wid­ow hap­py, for a whim. Why then de­clare good-​na­ture is her scorn, When ’tis by that alone she can be borne? Why pique all mor­tals, yet af­fect a name? A fool to plea­sure, yet a slave to fame: Now deep in Tay­lor and the Book of Mar­tyrs, Now drink­ing cit­ron with his grace and Chartres: Now Con­science chills her, and now Pas­sion burns; And Athe­ism and Re­li­gion take their turns; A very hea­then in the car­nal part, Yet still a sad, good Chris­tian at her heart.

What then? let blood and body bear the fault, Her head’s un­touched, that no­ble seat of thought: Such this day’s doc­trine–in an­oth­er fit She sins with po­ets through pure love of wit. What has not fired her bo­som or her brain? Cae­sar and Tall-​boy, Charles and Charle­magne. As Hel­luo, late dic­ta­tor of the feast, The nose of Haut­gout, and the tip of taste, Crit­ic’d your wine, and anal­ysed your meat, Yet on plain pud­ding deigned at home to eat; So Philomede, lec­tur­ing all mankind On the soft pas­sion, and the taste re­fined, The ad­dress, the del­ica­cy–stoops at once, And makes her hearty meal up­on a dunce. 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 all for 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, For ev­er 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 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 friend 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 the 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 ‘em 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 for ev­er. 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. One cer­tain por­trait may (I grant) be seen, Which Heav­en has var­nished out, and made a QUEEN. The same for ev­er! and de­scribed by all With truth and good­ness, as with crown and ball. Po­ets heap virtues, painters gems at will, And show their zeal, and hide their want of skill. ‘Tis well–but, artists! who can paint or write, To draw the naked is your true de­light. That robe of qual­ity so struts and swells, None see what parts of na­ture it con­ceals: The ex­actest traits of body or of mind, We owe to mod­els of an hum­ble kind. If Queens­bury to strip there’s no com­pelling, ‘Tis from a hand­maid we must take a He­len, From peer or bish­op ’tis no easy thing To draw the man who loves his God or king: Alas! I copy (or my draught would fail) From hon­est Mah’met, or plain Par­son Hale. 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. That, Na­ture gives; and where the les­son taught Is but to please, can plea­sure seem a fault? Ex­pe­ri­ence, this; by man’s op­pres­sion curst, They seek the sec­ond not to lose the first. Men, some to busi­ness, some to plea­sure take; But ev­ery wom­an is at heart a rake: Men, some to qui­et, some to pub­lic strife; But ev­ery la­dy would be queen for life. Yet mark the fate of a whole sex of queens! Pow­er all their end, but beau­ty all the means: In youth they con­quer, with so wild a rage, As leaves them scarce a sub­ject in their age: For for­eign glo­ry, for­eign joy, they roam; No thought of peace or hap­pi­ness at home. But wis­dom’s tri­umph is well-​timed re­treat, As hard a sci­ence to the fair as great! Beau­ties, like tyrants, old and friend­less grown, Yet hate re­pose, and dread to be alone, Worn out in pub­lic, weary ev­ery eye, Nor leave one sigh be­hind them when they die. Plea­sures the sex, as chil­dren birds, pur­sue, Still out of reach, yet nev­er out of view; Sure, if they catch, to spoil the toy at most, To cov­et fly­ing, and re­gret when lost: At last, to fol­lies youth could scarce de­fend, It grows their age’s pru­dence to pre­tend; Ashamed to own they gave de­light be­fore, Re­duced to feign it, when they give no more: As hags hold Sab­baths, less for joy than spite, So these their mer­ry, mis­er­able night; Still round and round the ghosts of beau­ty glide, And haunt the places where their hon­our died. See how the world its vet­er­ans re­wards! A youth of frol­ics, an old age of cards; Fair to no pur­pose, art­ful to no end; Young with­out lovers, old with­out a friend; A fop their pas­sion, but their prize a sot; Alive, ridicu­lous; and dead, for­got! Ah! friend! to daz­zle let the vain de­sign; To raise the thought and touch the heart be thine! That charm shall grow, while what fa­tigues the ring, Flaunts and goes down, an un­re­gard­ed thing: So when the sun’s broad beam has tired the sight, All mild as­cends the moon’s more sober light; Serene in vir­gin mod­esty she shines, And un­ob­served the glar­ing orb de­clines. Oh! blest with tem­per whose un­cloud­ed ray Can make to-​mor­row cheer­ful as to-​day, She, who can love a sis­ter’s charms, or hear Sighs for a daugh­ter with un­wound­ed ear; She, who ne’er an­swers till a hus­band cools, Or, if she rules him, nev­er shows she rules; Charms by ac­cept­ing, by sub­mit­ting sways, Yet has her hu­mour most, when she obeys; 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, though Chi­na fall. And yet, be­lieve me, good as well as ill, Wom­an’s at best a con­tra­dic­tion still. Heav­en, when it strives to pol­ish all it can Its last best work, but forms a soft­er man; Picks from each sex, to make the fav’rite blest, Your love of plea­sure, or de­sire of rest: Blends, in ex­cep­tion to all gen­er­al rules, Your taste of fol­lies, with our scorn of fools: Re­serve with frank­ness, art with truth al­lied, Courage with soft­ness, mod­esty with pride; Fixed prin­ci­ples, with fan­cy ev­er new; Shakes all to­geth­er, and pro­duces–You. Be this a wom­an’s fame: with this un­blest, Toasts live a scorn, and queens may die a jest. This Phoe­bus promised (I for­get the year) When those blue eyes first opened on the sphere; As­cen­dant Phoe­bus watched that hour with care, Avert­ed half your par­ents’ sim­ple prayer, And gave you beau­ty, but de­nied 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.