Would bounteous Heav'n once more indulge; I'd chuse (For who would so much satisfaction, lose, As witty nymphs in conversation, give) Near some obliging, modest fair to live; For there's that sweetness in a female mind, Which in a man's we cannot hope to find: That by a secret, but a pow'rful art, Winds up the springs of life, and does impart Fresh vital heat, to the transported heart. I'd have her reason all her passions sway; Easy in company, in private gay: Coy to a fop, to the deserving free, Still constant to herself, and just to me. A soul she should have, for great actions fit; Prudence and wisdom to direct her wit: Courage to look bold danger in the face, No fear, but only to be proud, or base: Quick to advise, by an emergence prest, To give good counsel, or to take the best. I'd have th' expression of her thoughts be such She might not seem reserv'd, nor talk too much. That shew a want of judgment and of sense: More than enough is but impertinence. Her conduct regular, her mirth resin'd, Civil to strangers to her neighbours kind, Averte to vanity, revenge, and pride, In all the methods of deceit untry'd. So faithful to her friend, and good to all, No censure might upon her actions fall: Then would e'en envy be compell'd to say, She goes the least of woman kind astray. To this fair creature I'd sometimes retire, Her conversation would new joys inspire; Give life an edge so keen, no surly care Would venture to assault my soul, or dare Near my retreat to hide one secret snare. But so divine, so noble a repast I'd seldom, and with moderation taste, For highest cordials all their virtue lose By a too frequent, and too bold an use: And what would cheer the spirit in distress; Ruins our health, when taken to excess. I'd be concern'd in no litigious jar, Belov'd by all, not vainly popular. Whate'er assistance I had pow'r to bring T' oblige my country, or to serve my King, Whene'er they call'd, I'd readily afford My tongue, my pen, my counsel, or my sword. Law suits I'd shun, with as much studious care, As I would dens where hungry lions are: And rather put up injuries, than be A plague to him, who'd be a plague to me. I value quiet at a price too great, To give for my revenge so dear a rate: For what do we by all our bustle gain, But counterfeit delight, for real pain;