But from a choice too negligent, too blind?
Marriage, by Heaven ordain’d is understood,
And bounteous Heaven ordain’d but what is good.
To our destruction we its bounties turn,
In flames, by Heaven to warm us meant, we burn.
What draws youth heedless to the fatal gin?
Features well form’d or a well polish’d skin.
What can in riper minds a wish create?
Wealth, or alliance with the rich and great:
Who to himself, now in his courtship, says,
I choose a partner of my future days;
Her face, or pocket seen, her mind they trust;
They wed to lay the fiends of avarice or lust.
But thou, whose honest thoughts the choice intend
Of a companion, and a softer friend;
A tender heart, which while thy soul it shares,
Augments thy joys, and lessens all thy cares.
One, who by thee while tenderly caress’d,
Shall steal that god-like transport to thy breast,
The joy to find you make another blest.
Thee in thy choice let other maxims move.
They wed for baser passions; thou for love.
Of beauty’s subtle poison well beware;
Our hearts are taken ere they dread the snare:
Our eyes, soon dazzled by that glare, grow blind,
And see no imperfections in the mind.
Of this apprised, the sex, with nicest art,
Insidiously adorn the outward part.
But beauty, to a mind depraved and ill,
Is a thin gilding to a nauseous pill;
A cheating promise of a short-lived joy,
Time must this idol, chance may soon destroy.
See Leda, once the circle’s proudest boast,
Of the whole town the universal toast;
By children, age, and sickness, now decay’d,
What marks remain of the triumphant maid?
Beauties which nature and which art produce,
Are form’d to please the eye, no other use.
The husband, sated by possession grown,
Or indolent to flatter what’s his own;
With eager rivals keeps unequal pace:
But oh! no rival flatters like her glass.
There still she’s sure a thousand charms to see,
A thousand times she more admires than he;
Then soon his dulness learns she to despise,
And thinks she’s thrown away too rich a prize.
To please her, try his little arts in vain;
His very hopes to please her move disdain.
The man of sense, the husband, and the friend,
Cannot with fools and coxcombs condescend
To such vile terms of tributary praise,
As tyrants scarce on conquer’d countries raise.
Beauties think Heaven they in themselves bestow,
All we return is gratitude too low.
A gen’ral beauty wisely then you shun;
But from a wit, as a contagion, run.
Beauties with praise if difficult to fill;
To praise a wit enough, is harder still.
Here with a thousand rivals you’ll contest;
He most succeeds who most approves the jest.
Ill-nature too with wit’s too often joined;
Too firm associates in the human mind.
Oft may the former for the latter go,
And for a wit we may mistake a shrew.
How seldom burns this fire, like Sappho’s, bright!
How seldom gives an innocent delight!
Flavia’s a wit at modesty’s expense;
Iris to laughter sacrifices sense.
Hard labour undergo poor Delia’s brains,
While every joke some mystery contains;
No problem is discuss’d with greater pains.
Not Lais more resolved, through thick and thin
Will plunge to meet her ever-darling sin,
Than Myrrha, through ingratitude and shame,
To raise the laugh, or get a witty fame.
No friendship is secure from Myrrha’s blows;
For wits, like gamesters, hurt both friends and foes.
Besides, where’er these shining flowers appear,
Too nice the soil more useful plants to bear;
Her house, her person, are below her care.
In a domestic sphere she scorns to move,
And scarce accepts the vulgar joys of love.
But while your heart to wit’s attacks is cool,
Let it not give admission to a fool.
He who can folly in a wife commend,
Proposes her a servant, not a friend.
Thou, too, whose mind is generous and brave,
Wouldst not become her master, but her slave;
For fools are obstinate, advice refuse,
And yield to none but arts you’d scorn to use.
When passion grows, by long possession, dull,
The sleepy flame her folly soon must lull;
Tho’ now, perhaps, those childish airs you prize,
Lovers and husbands see with diff’rent eyes.
A rising passion will new charms create;
A falling seeks new causes for its hate.
Wisely the bee, while teeming summer blooms,
Thinks of the dearth which with cold winter glooms,
So thou shouldst, in thy love’s serener time,
When passion reigns, and Flora’s in her prime,
Think of that winter which must sure ensue,
When she shall have no charms, no fondness you.
How then shall friendship to fond love succeed?
What charms shall serve her then in beauty’s stead?
What then shall bid the passion change, not cool?
No charm’s in the possession of a fool.
Next for the all-attracting power of gold,
That as a thing indifferent yon hold.
I know thy am’rous heart, whose honest pride
Is still to be on the obliging side,
Would wish the fair one, whom your soul allures,
Enjoy’d a fortune rather less than yours.
Those whom the dazzling glare of fortune strikes,
Whom gold allures to what the soul dislikes;
If counterfeit affection they support,
Strict penance do, and golden fetters court.
But if ungrateful for the boon they grow,
And pay the bounteous female back with woe,
These are the worst of robbers in their wills,
Whom laws prevent from doing lesser ills.
Many who profit in a match intend,
Find themselves clearly losers in the end,
Fulvius, who basely from Melissa broke,
With richer Chloe to sustain the yoke,
Sees, in her vast expense, his crimes repaid,
And oft laments the poor forsaken maid.
And say, what soul, that’s not to slavery born,
Can bear the taunts, th’ upbraidings, and the scorn,
Which women with their fortunes oft bestow?
Worse torments far than poverty can know.
Happy Alexis, sprung from such a race,
Whose blood would no nobility disgrace.
But, O prefer some tender of a flock,
Who scarce can graft one parson on her stock,
To a fair branch of Churchill’s noble line,
If thou must often hear it match’d with thine.
Hence should, I say, by her big taunts compell’d,
With Tallard taken. Villars forced to yield,
And all the glories of great Blenheim’s field.
While thus secure from what too frequent charms,
Small force against the rest your bosom arms.
Ill-nature, pride, or a malicious spleen,
To be abhorr’d, need on
ly to be seen;
But to discover ‘em may ask some art:
Women to lovers seldom faults impart.
She’s more than woman, who can still conceal
Faults from a lover who will watch her well.
The dams of art may Nature’s stream oppose,
It swells at last, and in a torrent flows.
But men, too partial, think, when they behold
A mistress rude, vain, obstinate, or bold,
That she to others who a demon proves,
May be an angel to the man she loves.
Mistaken hope, that can expect to find
Pride ever humble, or ill-nature kind.
No, rest assured, the ill which now you see
Her act to others, she will act to thee.
Shun then the serpent, when the sting appears,
Nor think a hurtful nature ever spares.
Two sorts of women never should be woo’d,
The wild coquette, and the censorious prude:
From love both chiefly seek to feed their pride,
Those to affect it strive, and these to hide.
Each gay coquette would be admired alone
By all, each prude be thought to value none.
Flaretta so weak vanities enthrall,
She’d leave her eager bridegroom for a ball.
Chloe, the darling trifle of the town,
Had ne’er been won but by her wedding gown;
While in her fond Myrtillo’s arms caress’d,
She doats on that, and wishes to be dress’d.
Like some poor bird, just pent within the cage,
Whose rambling heart in vain you would engage,
Cold to your fondness, it laments its chain,
And wanton longs to range the fields again.
But prudes, whose thoughts superior themes employ,
Scorn the dull transports of a carnal joy:
With screw’d-up face, confess they suffer raptures,
And marry only to obey the Scriptures.
But if her constitution take the part
Of honest Nature ‘gainst the wiles of art;
If she gives loose to love, she loves indeed;
Then endless fears and jealousies succeed.
If fondness e’er abate, you’re weary grown,
And doat on some lewd creature of the town.
If any beauty to a visit come;
Why can’t these gadding wretches stay at home?
They think each compliment conveys a flame,
You cannot both be civil to the same.
Of all the plagues with which a husband’s curst,
A jealous prude’s, my friend sure knows, the worst.
Some sterner foes to marriage bold aver,
‘That in this choice a man must surely err:
Nor can I to this lottery advise,
A thousand blanks appearing to a prize, Women by nature form’d too prone to ill,
By education are made proner still; To cheat, deceive, conceal each genuine thought,
By mothers and by mistresses are taught.
The face and shape are first the mother’s care;
The dancing-master next improves the air.
To these perfections add a voice most sweet;
The skill’d musician makes the nymph complete.
Thus with a person well equipp’d, her mind
Left, as when first created, rude and blind,
She’s sent to make her conquests on mankind.
But first inform’d the studied glance to aim,
Where riches show the profitable game:
How with unequal smiles the jest to take,
When princes, lords, or squires, or captains speak;
These lovers careful shun, and those create,
And merit only see in an estate.
But tho’ too many of this sort we find,
Some there are surely of a nobler kind.
Nor can your judgment want a rule to choose
If by these maxims guided you refuse.
His wishes then give Fidus to declare,
And paint the chief perfections of the fair.
May she then prove, who shall thy lot befall,
Beauteous to thee, agreeable to all.
Nor wit nor learning proudly may she boast;
No low-bred girl, nor gay fantastic toast:
Her tender soul good-nature must adorn,
And vice and meanness be alone her scorn.
Fond of thy person, may her bosom glow
With passions thou hast taught her first to know.
A warm partaker of the genial bed,
Thither by fondness, not by lewdness led.
Superior judgment may she own thy lot;
Humbly advise, but contradict thee not.
Thine to all other company prefer;
May all thy troubles find relief from her.
If fortune gives thee such a wife to meet,
Earth cannot make thy blessing more complete.
TO JOHN HAYES ESQ.
THAT Varius huffs, and fights it out to-day,
Who ran last week so cowardly away,
In Codrus may surprise the little skill,
Who nothing knows of humankind, but ill:
Confining all his knowledge, and his art,
To this, that each man is corrupt at heart.
But thou who Nature thro’ each maze canst trace,
Who in her closet forcest her embrace;
Canst with thy Horace see the human elves
Not differ more from others than themselves:
Canst see one man at several times appear,
Now gay, now grave, now candid, now severe;
Now save his friends, now leave ‘em in the lurch;
Now rant in brothels, and now cant in church.
Yet farther with the muse pursue the theme,
And see how various men at once will seem;
How passions blended on each other fix,
How vice with virtues, faults with graces mix;
How passions opposite, as sour to sweet,
Shall in one bosom at one moment meet,
With various luck for victory contend,
And now shall carry, and now lose their end.
The rotten beau, while smelled along the room,
Divides your nose ‘twixt stenches and perfume:
So vice and virtue lay such equal claim,
Your judgment knows not when to praise or blame.
Had Nature actions to one source confined,
Ev’n blundering Codrus might have known mankind.
But as the diff’ring colours blended lie
When Titian variegates his clouded sky;
Where white and black, the yellow and the green,
Unite and undistinguish’d form the scene;
So the great artist diff’ring passions joins,
And love with hatred, fear with rage, combines.
Nor Nature this confusion makes alone;
She gives us often half, and half’s our own.
Men what they are not struggle to appear,
And Nature strives to show them as they are;
While Art, repugnant thus to Nature, fights,
The various man appears in different lights.
The sage or hero on the stage may show
Behind the scenes the blockhead or the beau.
For tho’ with Quin’s or Garrick’s matchless art,
He acts; my friend, he only acts a part:
For Quin himself, in a few moments more,
Is Quin again who Cato was before.
Thus while the courtier acts the patriot’s part,
This guides his face and tongue, and that his heart.
Abroad the patriot shines with artful mien,
The naked courtier glares behind the scene.
What wonder then to-morrow if he grow
A courtier good, who is a patriot now!
A DESCRIPTION OF U — N G
— (ALIAS NEW HOG’S NORTON), IN COM. HANTS.
WRITTEN TO A YOUNG LADY IN THE YEAR 1728
To Rosalinda, now from town retired,
Where noblest hearts her brilliant eyes have fired;
Whom nightingales in fav’rite bowers delight,
Where sweetest flowers perfume the fragrant night;
Where music’s charms enchant the fleeting hours,
And wit transports with all Thalia’s powers;
Alexis sends: Whom his hard fates remove
From the dear scenes of poetry and love,
To barren climates, less frequented plains,
Unpolish’d nymphs, and more unpolish’d swains.
In such a place how can Alexis sing?
An air ne’er beaten by the muse’s wing!
In such a place what subject can appear?
What not unworthy Rosalinda’s ear?
Yet if a charm in novelty there be,
Sure it will plead to Rosalind for me?
Whom courts or cities nought unknown can show,
Still U — G — presents a prospect new.
As the daub’d scene, that on the stage is shown,
Where this side canvas is, and that a town;
Or as that lace which Paxton half lace calls,
That decks some beau apprentice out for balls;
Such our half house erects its mimic head,
This side a house presents, and that a shed.
Nor doth the inward furniture excel,
Nor yields it to the beauty of the shell:
Here Roman triumphs placed with awkward art,
A cart its horses draws, an elephant the cart,
On the house-side a garden may be seen,
Which docks and nettles keep for ever green.
Weeds on the ground, instead of flowers, we see,
And snails alone adorn the barren tree.
Happy for us, had Eve’s this garden been;
She’d found no fruit, and therefore known no sin.
Nor meaner ornament the shed-side decks
With hay-stacks, faggot piles, and bottle-ricks;
The horses’ stalls, the coach a barn contains;
Eor purling streams, we’ve puddles filled with rains.
What can our orchard without trees surpass?
“What, but our dusty meadow without grass?
I’ve thought (so strong with me burlesque prevails,)
This place design’d to ridicule Versailles;
Or meant, like that, art’s utmost power to show,
That tells how high it reaches, this how low.
Our conversation does our palace fit,
Complete Fictional Works of Henry Fielding Page 374
