Shakes all together, and produces--you. 280

Be this a woman's fame: with this unbless'd,
Toasts live a scorn, and queens may die a jest.
This Phoebus promised (I forget the year)
When those blue eyes first open'd on the sphere;
Ascendant Phoebus watch'd that hour with care,
Averted half your parents' simple prayer;
And gave you beauty, but denied the pelf
That buys your sex a tyrant o'er itself.
The generous god, who wit and gold refines,
And ripens spirits as he ripens mines, 290
Kept dross for duchesses, the world shall know it,
To you gave sense, good-humour, and a poet.


VARIATIONS.

VER. 77 in the MS.--

In whose mad brain the mix'd ideas roll
Of Tall-toy's breeches, and of Caesar's soul.

After VER. 122 in the MS.--

Oppress'd with wealth and wit, abundance sad!
One makes her poor, the other makes her mad.

After VER. 148 in the MS.--