Art of Love

The widow'd fair, who sees her lord expire,

While yet she weeps, may kindle new desire,

And Hymen's torch relight the fun'ral fire.

Beware of men who are too sprucely dress'd;

And look, you fly with speed a fop profess'd.

Such tools to you, and to a thousand more,

Will tell the same dull story o'er and o'er.

This way add that, unsteadily they rove,

And never fixed, are fugitives in love.

Such flutt'ring things all women sure should hate,

Light as themselves, and more effeminate.

Believe me, all I say is for your good;

Had Priam been believ'd, Troy still had stood.

Many, with base designs, will passions feign,

Who know no love, but sordid love of gain.

But let not powder'd heads, nor essenc'd hair,

Your well-believing, easy hearts ensnare.

Rich clothes are oft by common sharpers worn,

And diamond rings felonious hands adorn.

So may your lover burn with fierce desire

Your jewels to enjoy, and best attire.

Poor Chloe robb'd, runs crying thro' the streets;

And as she runs," Give me my own," repeats.

How often, Venus, hast thou heard such cries,

And laugh'd amidst thy Appian votaries?

Some, so notorious are their very name,

Must ev'ry nymph whom they frequent defame.

Be warn'd by ills which others have destroy'd,

And faithless men with constant care avoid.

Trust not a Theseus, fair Athenian maid,

Who has so oft th' attesting gods betray'd.

And thou, Demophoon, heir to Theseus' crimes,

Hast lost thy credit to all future times.

Promise for promise equally afford,

But once a contract made, keep well your word.

For she for any act of hell is fit,

And undismayed may sacrilege commit;

With impious hands could quench the vestal fire

Poison her husband in her arms for hire,

Who first to take a lover's gift complies,

And then defrauds him, and his claim denies.

But hold, my muse, check thy unruly horse,

And more in sight pursue th' intended course.

If love epistles tender lines impart,

And billet-doux are sent to sound your heart,

Let all such letters by a faithful maid,

Or confident, be secretly convey'd.

Soon from the words you'll judge, if read with care,

When feign'd a passion is, and when sincere.

Ere in return you write some time require;

Delays, if not too long, increase desire;

Nor let the pressing youth with ease obtain,

Nor yet refuse him with too rude disdain.

Now let his hopes, now let his fears increase,

But by degrees, let fear to hope give place.

Be sure avoid set phrases when you write,

The usual way of speech is more polite.

How have I seen the puzzl'd lover vex'd,

To read a letter with hard words perplex'd;

A style too coarse takes from a handsome face,

And makes us wish an uglier in its place.

But since (tho' chastity be not your care)

You from your husband still would hide th' affair,

Write to no stranger till his truth be tried;

Nor in a foolish messenger confide.

What agonies that woman undergoes,

Whose hand the traitor threatens to expose;

Who rashly trusting, dreads to be deceiv'd,

And lives for ever to that dread enslav'd!

Such treachery can never be surpass'd,

For those discoveries, sure as light'ning, blast.

Might I advise, fraud shou'd with fraud be paid;

Let arms repel all who with arms invade.

But since your letters may be brought to light,

What if in sev'ral hands you learn to write?

My curse on him who first the sex betray'd,

And this advice so necessary made.

Nor let your pocket-book two hands contain,

First rub your lover's out, then write again.

Still one contrivance more remains behind,

Which you may use as a convenient blind;

As if to women writ, your letters frame,

And let your friend, to you subscribe a female name.

Now, greater things to tell, my muse prepare,

And clap on all the sail the bark can bear.

Let no rude passions in your looks find place;

For fury will deform the finest face;

It swells the lips, and blackens all the veins,

While in the eye a Gorgon horror reigns.

While on her flute divine Minerva play'd,

And in a fountain saw the change it made,

Swelling her cheek: she flung it quick aside,

"Nor is thy music so much worth," she cried.

Look in your glass when you with anger glow,

And you'll confess, you scarce yourself can know.

Nor with excessive pride insult the sight,

For gentle looks alone to love invite.

Believe it as a truth that's daily tried,

There's nothing more detestable than pride.

How have I seen some airs disgust create,