To Mrs H. Key

Fair is your Sex, but, Ah! so faithless, they
Indeed deserve what we in Satyr say:
But some among the rest, a very few,
Like Diamonds in the dust, attract our view;
Among which number sparkling like a Star,
You shine above the rest, and spread your lustre far.
Ah Noble Maid! but in thy Age's noon,
And make perfection all thy own so soon!
Showing thy Sex (and O that more wou'd please
To trace thy steps) they may be good with ease;
That Vertue's not a Scarecrow to affright, (light:
But soft as kindling love, and mild as dawning
Indeed our Teachers with their Haggard looks,
And doz'd with poring upon Musty Books,
Say 'tis a Blessing ev'n the best can't gain,
But with an Age of Patience, Toyl and Pain;
O, why shou'd they make rough what you have made so plain?
But while of these Impediments they tell,
They but discourage those that wou'd do well,
Unwing their mounting thoughts, which else might fly
A tow'ring height with yours and reach the ample sky:
'Tis granted that Temptations still abound,
But whom seduce? the rotten, not the sound:
Gold charms in vain, in vain the Siren sings,
To one that does contemplate higher things;
That sees the Goal, and with a sober pace,
(For some run fast and tire) keep on and win the race.
Ill fare the rigid Dame and wrinkl'd Face,
As far from common sense as Sin from Grace,
That think none can be wise or good, but those
That whine and cant, and snuffle in the Nose,
And wear, by choice, unfashionable Cloaths:
But decent Ornament, though such abase,
Instead of a reproof does claim our praise:
Why shou'd that Female be thought vain, or proud,
That loves to be distinguish't from the croud?
The crowd (not Sin shou'd be avoided more)
Those two leg'd Bruits, more senseless than the four.
Yet that a mean shou'd be observ'd is true,
And 'tis as sure that mean's observ'd by few:
The Servant shou'd not like her Lady dress,
(She may let her Impertinence be less)
Nor Drabs of the Exchange, of base report,
Be trick't like a fine Lady of the Court:
In Quality there's many things allow'd,
Which, in a meaner State wou'd be too proud;
Though oft in Quality, it self, we see
A strange Corruption of this Liberty:
Extravagance in dress is the abuse,
And that, in no degree, admits excuse.
The Merchant's tawdry Spouse does most affect
That costly wear the better-bred reject;
Such will have rich attire, and when that's done,
They're awkardly and flauntingly put on:
Just as a Bully's know by full-mouth'd Oaths,
So the Cit's Wife by ill-chose tawdry Cloaths;
Which yet, to make it worse, the senseless Elves
Think best, and for their fancy hug themselves.—
But thou art to the happy mean inclin'd,
Ev'n in thy outward dress we see thy inmost mind,
So much of Modesty it dazles sight,
And renders thee our wonder and delight:
Fine, not coquetish, as if too much care
Were us'd in dressing; then thy gentle air
(Neither too stiff, nor, which is worse, too free,
But just what true deportment ought to be)
Mixt with thy pleasing Converse, is a Charm
That wou'd give Statues Life, and make cold Hermits warm.
Happy for Womankind, as Happy too
For us, were all your charming Sex like you;
Wou'd they Behaviour from your Conduct learn
Dress well, but make high Heav'n their chief concern:
But Ah! Mankind wou'd then too happy be,
And Heav'n has shew'd us, in Creating Thee,
Such Worth's a thing we must but seldom see;
For, unlike thee, most of thy Sex, we find,
Not made to Pleasure, but to plague Mankind.
Vain are our Youths to let thee, then, so long
Live in thy Virgin State — but 'tis themselves they wrong:
Or else unkind art thou, that wilt not take
Th'Addresses, which without dispute, they make;
For they have Hearts Impression to receive,
And you have Eyes to Conquer and Enslave!
Yes, yes! I see 'em at your Footstool kneel,
I hear 'em sigh, and with a pang reveal
That Love they did with greater pangs conceal!
O be n't Inexorable, but incline
To Pity — Love's a Passion all Divine!
Make some one happy, and reward his care,
And ease the rest by giving 'em despair.