Thus, like an arrant Woman, as I am,
No sooner well convinc’d Writing’s a Shame,
That Whore is scarce a more reproachful Name
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Y’expect to hear, at least, what Love has past
In this lewd Town, since you and I saw last;
What Change has happen’d of Intrigues, and whether
The old ones last, and who and who’s together.
But how, my dearest Cloe, shou’d I set
My Pen to write, what I wou’d fain forget?
Or name that lost thing Love without a Tear,
Since so debauch’d by ill-bred Customs here?
Love, the most gen’rous Passion of the Mind;
The softest Refuge Innocence can find;
The safe Director of unguided Youth;
Fraught with kind Wishes, and secur’d by Truth:
That Cordial-drop Heav’n in our Cup has thrown,
To make the nauseous Draught of Life go down:
On which one only Blessing God might raise,
In Lands of Atheists, Subsidies of Praise:
For none did e’er so dull and stupid prove,
But felt a God, and bless’d his Pow’r in Love:
This only Joy, for which poor we are made,
Is grown, like Play, to be an arrant Trade:
The Rooks creep in, and it has got of late,
As many little Cheats and Tricks as that.
But, what yet more a Woman’s Heart wou’d vex,
’Tis chiefly carry’d on by our own Sex.
Our silly Sex, who, born like Monarchs, free,
Turn Gypsies for a meaner Liberty;
And hate Restraint, tho’ but from Infamy:
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They call whatever is not common nice,
And, deaf to Nature’s Rule, or Love’s Advice,
Forsake the Pleasure to pursue the Vice.