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SHE from the steed of wanton mane
Shall spurn all servile toil and pain;
Nor shake the sieve; nor ply the mill;
Nor sweep the floor, though dusty still;
Nor near the oven take her seat;

But loathe the ashes, smoke, and heat:
And to her husband profit naught

Unless by mere compulsion taught.

Twice, thrice, she bathes her through the day,

Washing the slightest soil away :

Perfumes with oils her every limb;

Her tresses combs in order trim;
Tress upon tress in thickening braid;
While twisted flowers her temples shade,

A goodly sight to strangers' view:

But he, that owns her, sore shall rue

The cost, I ween: unless he be

Satrap or king, and joy in luxury.

Her from an Ape the Maker sent Man's evil mate and punishment. Her visage foul; she walks the streets, The laughing-stock of all she meets. Scarce her short neck can turn; all slim, And lank, and spare; all leg and limb; Wretched the man, who in his breast Is doom'd to fold this female pest! She, like the Ape, is versed in wiles; And tricking turns; she never smiles: Obliges none; but ponders still On mischief-plots, and daily ill.

Who gains the creature from the Bee, By fortune favour'd most is he: To her alone, with pointless sting, Would Scandal impotently cling. With her his May of life is long; His days are flourishing and strong. Beloved, her fond embrace she twines Round him she loves: with him declines In fading years; her race is known For goodly forms, and fair renown.

Her decent charms her sex outshine:

Around her flits a grace divine.

She sits not pleased where women crowd, In amorous tattle, light and loud :

With such the God mankind has blest;

With such, the wisest and the best.

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VIRTUE in legend old is said to dwell

On high rocks, inaccessible;

But swift descends from high,

And haunts of virtuous men the chaste society.
No man shall, ever, rise

Conspicuous in his fellow mortals' eyes
To manly virtue's pinnacle;

Unless, within his soul, he bear

The drops of painful sweat, that slowly well

From spirit-wasting thought, and toil, and care.


BLAND mother of the grape! all-gladdening vine! Teeming inebriate joy! whose tendrils bloom Crisp woven in winding trail, now green entwine This pillar's top, this mount, Anacreon's tomb. As lover of the feast, th' untemper'd bowl, While the full draught was reeling in his soul, He smote upon the harp, whose melodies

Were tuned to girlish loves, till midnight fled; Now, fall'n to earth, embower him as he lies,

Thy purpling clusters blushing o'er his head: Still be fresh dew upon the branches hung, Like that which breathed from his enchanting tongue.

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