Feeble as thou wert in thy infant days,
Like thee she mov’d, she totter’d, and was weak.
When age mature arriv’d, and call’d to pleasures,
Slave to thy sense, she still was so to thee,
When fifty winters, Fate had let thee count;
Pregnant with thousand cares and worlds of woes,
The hateful issue in thy breast she threw,
And now grown old thou loosest her for ever.
Before I end this chapter, let every body take notice, that if for having spoken so much against reason, any one should say, that it is a plain sign the author has none; and that there are a great many others, who, in the words of M. La Motte[9], will be apt to say:—
“Heureux cent fois l’auteur avec qui l’on s’oublie