then, who with reason can pretend that all effects of virtue end?

Believe me, Stella, when you show that true contempt for things below, nor prize your life for other ends than merely to oblige your friends; your former actions claim their part, and join to fortify your heart. For virtue, in her daily race, like Janus, bears a double face; looks back with joy where she has gone, and therefore goes with courage on; she at your sickly couch will wait, and guide you to a better state.

O then, whatever Heaven intends, take pity on your pitying friends; nor let your ills affect your mind, to fancy they can be unkind.

Me, surely me, you ought to spare, who gladly would your suffering share: or give my scrap of life to you, and think it far beneath your due; you to whose care so soft I owe that I'm alive to tell you so.

ADVICE.

to the Grub-street Verse-writers, 1726.

Ye poets ragged and forlorn,
down from your garrets haste;
ye rhymers dead as soon as born,
not yet consign'd to paste;

I know a trick to make you thrive;
O, 't is a quaint device:

55555.

your still-born poems shall revive,
and scorn to wrap up spice.

Get all your verses printed fair,
and let them well be dried;
and Curll must have a special care
to leave the margin wide.
Lend these to paper-sparing * Pope;
and when he sits to write,
no letter with an envelope
could give him more delight.

When Pope has fill'd the margins round,

why then recall your loan;

sell them to Curll for fifty pound,

and swear they are your own.

THE JOURNAL OF A MODERN LADY.
in a Letter to a Person of Quality, 1728.

SIR,

It was a most unfriendly part

in you, who ought to know my heart,
are well acquainted with my zeal
for all the female commonweal-
how could it come into your mind
to pitch on me, of all mankind,
against the sex to write a satire,
and brand me for a woman-hater?
on me, who think them all so fair,
they rival Venus to a hair;

their virtues never ceas'd to sing,

*The original copy of Mr. Pope's celebrated translation of Homer (preserved in the British Museum) is almost entirely written on the covers of letters, and sometimes between the lines of the letters themselves.

since first I learn'd to tune a string?
Methinks I hear the ladies cry,
will he his character belie?

must never our misfortunes end?
and have we lost our only friend?
ah, lovely nymphs, remove your fears,
no more let fall those precious tears.
Sooner shall, &c.

[Here several verses are omitted.] the hound be hunted by the hare, than I turn rebel to the fair:

'T was you engag'd me first to write, then gave the subject out of spite: the journal of a modern dame,

is, by my promise, what

you claim. My word is past, I must submit; and yet perhaps you may be bit. I but transcribe; for not a line of all the satire shall be mine. Compell'd by you to tag in rhymes the common slanders of the times, of modern times, the guilt is your's, and me my innocence secures. Unwilling muse, begin thy lay, the annals of a female day.

By nature turn'd to play the rake well (as we shall show you in the sequel), the modern dame is wak'd by noon (some authors say, not quite so soon); because, tho' sore against her will, she sate all night up at quadrille. She stretches, gapes, unglues her eyes, and asks if it be time to rise;

of head-ach and the spleen complains;

and then, to cool her heated brains,

her night-gown and her slippers brought her, takes a large dram of citron-water.

Then to her glass; and, "Betty, pray
do n't I look frightfully to-day?
but was it not confounded hard?
well, if I ever touch a card!

Four mattadores, and lose codille!
depend upon 't, I never will.
But run to Tom, and bid him fix
the ladies here to night by six."
"Madam, the goldsmith waits below;
he says, his business is to know

if you 'll redeem the silver cup

he keeps in pawn?"-" First, show him up." "Your dressing. plate he 'll be content to take, for interest cent. per cent. And, Madam, there's my lady Spade hath sent this letter by her maid." "Well, I remember what she won; and hath she sent so soon to dun? Here, carry down those ten pistoles, my husband left to pay for coals: I thank my stars, they all are light; and I may have revenge to-night." Now, loitering o'er her tea and cream, she enters on her usual theme; her last night's ill success repeats, calls lady Spade a hundred cheats: "She slipt spadillo in her breast, then thought to turn it to a jest: there's Mrs. Cut and she combine, and to each other give the sign." Through every game pursues her tale,

like hunters o'er their evening ale. Now to another scene give place: enter the folks with silks and lace: fresh matter for a world of chat, right Indian this, right Mechlin that; "Observe this pattern; there's a stuff; I can have customers enough.

Dear madam, you are grown so hardthis lace is worth twelve pounds a yard: madam, if there be truth in man, I never sold so cheap a fan." This business of importance o'er, and madam almost dress'd by four; the footman, in his usual phrase, comes up with," Madam, dinner stays." She answers, in her usual style, "The cook must keep it back awhile: I never can have time to dress, (no woman breathing takes up less) I'm hurried so, it makes me sick; I wish the dinner at Old Nick." At table now she acts her part, has all the dinner cant by heart: "I thought we were to dine alone, my dear; for sure, if I had known this company would come to daybut really 't is my spouse's way! he's so unkind, he never sends to tell when he invites his friends: I wish you may but have enough!" And while with all this paltry stuff she sits tormenting every guest, nor gives her tongue one moment's rest, in phrases batter'd, stale, and trite,