To a Lady on the Characters of Women

Narcissa’s nature, tolerably mild,

To make a wash, would hardly stew a child;

Has ev’n been prov’d to grant a lover’s pray’r,

And paid a tradesman once to make him stare,

Gave alms at Easter, in a Christian trim,

And made a widow happy, for a whim.

Why then declare good nature is her scorn,

When ’tis by that alone she can be borne?

Why pique all mortals, yet affect a name?

A fool to pleasure, yet a slave to fame:

Now deep in Taylor and the Book of Martyrs

Now drinking citron with his Grace and Chartres.

Now conscience chills her, and now passion burns;

And atheism and religion take their turns;

A very heathen in the carnal part,

Yet still a sad, good Christian at her heart.

arnold-bocklin-villa-au-bord-de-la-mer-1878

Nothing so true as what you once let fall,

“Most Women have no Characters at all.”

Matter too soft a lasting mark to bear,

And best distinguish’d by black, brown, or fair.

How many pictures of one nymph we view,

All how unlike each other, all how true!

Arcadia’s Countess, here, in ermin’d pride,

Is, there, Pastora by a fountain side.

Here Fannia, leering on her own good man,

And there, a naked Leda with a Swan.

Let then the Fair one beautifully cry,

In Magdalen’s loose hair and lifted eye,

Or dress’d in smiles of sweet Cecilia shine,

With simp’ring angels, palms, and harps divine;

Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it,

If folly grows romantic, I must paint it.

Come then, the colours and the ground prepare!

Dip in the rainbow, trick her off in air;

Choose a firm cloud, before it fall, and in it

Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of this minute.

CONNECT/HOOK