A salmon's belly, Helluo, was thy fate; The doctor call'd, declares all help too late: 'Mercy!' cries Helluo, 'mercy on my soul! 240 Is there no hope? Alas! then bring the jowl.' The frugal crone, whom praying priests attend, Still tries to save the hallow'd taper's end, Collects her breath, as ebbing life retires, For one puff more, and in that puff expires. 'Odious! in woollen! 'twould a saint provoke,' (Were the last words that poor Narcissa[11] spoke), 'No, let a charming chintz and Brussels lace Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face: One would not, sure, be frightful when one's dead-- 250 And, Betty, give this cheek a little red.' The courtier smooth, who forty years had shined An humble servant to all human kind, Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue could stir, 'If--where I'm going--I could serve you, sir?' 'I give and I devise' (old Euclio said, And sigh'd) 'my lands and tenements to Ned.' 'Your money, sir?' 'My money, sir, what! all? Why--if I must'--(then wept)--'I give it Paul.' 'The manor, sir?'--'The manor! hold,' (he cried), 260 'Not that--I cannot part with that'--and died. And you, brave Cobham! to the latest breath Shall feel your ruling passion strong in death: Such in those moments as in all the past, 'Oh, save my country, Heaven!' shall be your last. VARIATIONS. After VER. 86, in the former editions-- Triumphant leaders, at an army's head, Hemm'd round with glories, pilfer cloth or bread: As meanly plunder as they bravely fought, Now save a people, and now save a groat. VER. 129, in the former editions-- Ask why from Britain Caesar made retreat? Caesar himself would tell you he was beat. The mighty Czar what moved to wed a punk? The mighty Czar would tell you he was drunk. In the former editions, VER. 208-- Nature well known, no _miracles_ remain. EPISTLE II.--TO A LADY. OF THE CHARACTERS OF WOMEN. 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 ermined pride, Is there, Pastora by a fountain side. Here Fannia, leering on her own good man, And there, a naked Leda with a swan. 10 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 simpering angels, palms, and harps divine; Whether the charmer sinner it or saint it, If folly grow 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. 20