Thus Pompey th' envious gods, and Rome's ill stars --Freed from Campania's fevers, and the wars-- Doom'd to Achilles' sword: our public vows Made Caesar guiltless; but sent him to lose His head at Nile: this curse Cethegus miss'd: This Lentulus, and this made him resist That mangled by no lictor's axe, fell dead Entirely Catiline, and sav'd his head. The anxious matrons, with their foolish zeal, Are the last votaries, and their appeal Is all for beauty; with soft speech, and slow, They pray for sons, but with a louder vow Commend a female feature: all that can Make woman pleasing now they shift, and scan And when[54] reprov'd, they say, Latona's pair The mother never thinks can be too fair. But sad Lucretia warns to wish no face Like hers: Virginia would bequeath her grace To crook-back Rutila in exchange; for still The fairest children do their parents fill With greatest cares; so seldom chastity Is found with beauty; though some few there be That with a strict, religious care contend Th' old, modest, Sabine customs to defend: Besides, wise Nature to some faces grants An easy blush, and where she freely plants A less instruction serves: but both these join'd, At Rome would both be forc'd or else purloin'd. So steel'd a forehead Vice hath, that dares win, And bribe the father to the children's sin; But whom have gifts defiled not? what good face Did ever want these tempters? pleasing grace Betrays itself; what time did Nero mind A coarse, maim'd shape? what blemish'd youth confin'd His goatish pathic? whence then flow these joys Of a fair issue? whom these sad annoys Wait, and grow up with; whom perhaps thou'lt see Public adulterers, and must be Subject to all the curses, plagues, and awe Of jealous madmen, and the Julian law; Nor canst thou hope they'll find a milder star, Or more escapes than did the god of war. But worse than all, a jealous brain confines His fury to no law; what rage assigns Is present justice: thus the rash sword spills This lecher's blood; the scourge another kills. But thy spruce boy must touch no other face Than a patrician? is of any race So they be rich; Servilia is as good, With wealth, as she that boasts Iulus' blood. To please a servant all is cheap; what thing In all their stock to the last suit, and king, But lust exacts? the poorest whore in this As generous as the patrician is. But thou wilt say what hurt's a beauteous skin With a chaste soul? Ask Theseus' son, and him That Stenob[oe]a murder'd; for both these Can tell how fatal 'twas in them to please. A woman's spleen then carries most of fate, When shame and sorrow aggravate her hate. Resolve me now, had Silius been thy son, In such a hazard what should he have done?