An ODE

I'Ve often thought, but ne'er till now cou'd find
Why Heroes so much strove,
Their Greatness to improve;
'Tis only this, that Women might be kind,
And answer Love with Love.

Fortune no Goddess is, but for their sake;
Alas! she can't be prest,
Nor kiss'd, nor do the rest:
Riches and she, of which Men so much make,
Are only Pimps at best.

One this way stalks, another that to's game;
One's brave, this Hector's high,
This pretends Piety:
But I'm deceiv'd if Woman ben't their aim,
Still Woman's in their Eye.

Scepters and Crowns were silly trifling things;
'Twou'd be but poor repast,
To please the sight and tast,
But that they make Men absolutely Kings,
And Kings chuse Queens at last.