BUT what are theſe to great Atoſſa's Mind,
Scarce once herſelf, by Turns all Womankind?
Who with herſelf, and others from her Birth,
Finds all her Life one Warfare upon Earth;
Shines in expoſing Knaves and painting Fools,
Yet is whate'er ſhe hates or ridicules.
No Thought advances, but her eddy Brain
Whirls it about, and down it goes again.
Full ſixty Years the World has been her Trade,
The wiſeſt Fool much Time has ever made:
From Loveleſs Youth to unreſpected Age,
No Paſſion gratify'd except her Rage;
[4] So much the Fury ſtill out-ran the Wit,
The Pleaſure miſs'd her, and the Scandal hit;
Who breaks with her, provokes Revenge from Hell,
But he's a bolder Man who dares be well;
Her ev'ry Turn with Violence purſu'd,
Nor more a Storm her Hate, than Gratitude:
To that each Paſſion turns or ſoon or late,
Love, if it make her yield, muſt make her hate,
Superior 's Death! an Equal, what a Curſe!
But an Inferior, not Dependant, worſe.
Offend her, and ſhe knows not to forgive,
Oblige her, and ſhe'll hate you while you live.
But die, and ſhe'll adore you
*—Then the Buſt
And Temple riſe,—then fall again to Duſt.
Laſt Night her Lord was all that's good and great;
A Knave this Morning, and his Will a Cheat.
Strange! by the Means defeated of the Ends.
By Spirit, robb'd of Power; by Warmth, of Friends;
By Wealth, of Followers; without one Diſtreſs,
Sick of herſelf thro' very Selfiſhneſs,
FINIS.