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V E N US's
A D VICE
M U S E S.
THUS to the Muses spoke the Cyprian Dame ; “ Adorn my altars, and revere my name. “ My Son shall else assume his potent darts, “ Twang goes the bow, my girls ; have at your
hearts ?” The Muses answer'd, “ Venus, we deride so The Vagrant's malice, and his Mother's pride; “ Send him to Nymphs who sleep on Ida's shade, * To the loose dance, and wanton masquerade ; “ Our thoughts are settled, and intent our look, 6. On the instructive verse, and moral book; « On Female idleness his
power relies; “ But, when he finds us studying hard, he flies."
His lamp, his bow, and quiver, laid aside,
PONTIUS (who love, you know a joke,
Much better than he loves his life) Chanc'd t' other morning to provoke
The patience of a well-bred Wife.
Talking of you, said he, my dear,
Two of the greatest wits in town One ask'd, if that high furze of hair
WAS, BONA FIDE, all your own.
Her own! most certain, t 'other faid;
For Nan, who knows the thing, will tell ye, The hair was bought, the money paid,
And the receipt was fign's Ducailly.
Pontia (that civil prudent fhe,
Who values wit much less than sense, And never darts a repartee,
But purely in her own defence)
Reply'd, these friends of your's, my dear,
Are given extremely much to fatire ! But pr’ythee, husband, let one hear
Sometimes less wit, and more good-nature.
Now I have one unlucky thought,
That would have spoil'd your friend's conceit; Some hair I have, I'm sure, unbought :
Pray bring your Brother Wits to see 't.
CUPID TURNED STROLLER,
A N ACREON.
T dead of night, when stars appear,
With due regard his voice I heard,
pretty bow belongs to me:
breast a secret wound. This done, the rogue no longer said, But leapt away, and laughing said, “ Kind Hoft, adieu ! we now must part; “ Safe is my bow, but fick thy heart!”