Thus launch I off with triumph from thy shore, To which my last farewell; for never more Will I touch there. I put to sea again Blown with the churlish wind of thy disdain. Nor will I stop this course till I have found A coast that yields safe harbour, and firm ground. 70 Smile, ye Love-Stars; wing'd with desire I fly, To make my wishes' full discovery: Nor doubt I but for one that proves like you, I shall find ten as fair, and yet more true. [_To his unconstant Friend._] [Line: 7 I have thought it better to keep the form 'ban_e_', which was not uncommon (and, if I am not mistaken, was sometimes made to carry a pun with it), instead of the now usual, and even then authoritative, 'ban_n_'.] [Line: 11 laid] Orig. 'lad'--an evident misprint.] [Line: 16 had perisht _Malone MS. 22._] [Line: 57 Orig., as often, 'mal_e_contents'. This piece is one of King's few attempts to play the 'dog'. It is, as one would expect, not very happy, but it might be worse.] _Madam Gabrina, Or the Ill-favour'd Choice._ _Con mala Muger el remedio_ _Mucha Tierra por el medio._ I have oft wond'red why thou didst elect Thy mistress of a stuff none could affect, That wore his eyes in the right place. A thing Made up, when Nature's powers lay slumbering. One, where all pregnant imperfections met To make her sex's scandal: Teeth of jet, Hair dy'd in orp'ment, from whose fretful hue Canidia her highest witchcrafts drew. A lip most thin and pale, but such a mouth Which like the poles is stretched North and South 10 A face so colour'd, and of such a form, As might defiance bid unto a storm: And the complexion of her sallow hide Like a wrack'd body wash'd up by the tide: Eyes small: a nose so to her vizard glued As if 'twould take a Planet's altitude. Last for her breath, 'tis somewhat like the smell That does in Ember weeks on Fish-street dwell; Or as a man should fasting scent the Rose Which in the savoury Bear-garden grows. 20 If a Fox cures the paralytical, Hadst thou ten palsies, she'd outstink them all. But I have found thy plot: sure thou didst try To put thyself past hope of jealousy: And whilst unlearned fools the senses please, Thou cur'st thy appetite by a disease; As many use, to kill an itch withal, Quicksilver or some biting mineral. Dote upon handsome things each common man With little study and less labour can; 30 But to make love to a deformity, Only commends thy great ability, Who from hard-favour'd objects draw'st content, As estriches from iron nutriment.