Lucretia still appears in all her charms, A match most fitting for Philander’s arms. What she possesses yields most solid joy, Since bags of wealth buy pleasures ne’er can cloy. These beauties catch; they set my heart on fire; Her farm, her flocks, are all I do admire: Her darts are powerful, of a yellowish hue, More fierce than those the fam’d Alcides threw. Her striking beauty in full bloom appears, At the dull period of full fifty years: Then Delia will no admiration claim, But dear Lucretia ever is the same. DAMON. For this you love her; now I truly find, That none but gilded cords your heart can bind; Nor wit nor beauty can obtain your vow; At Mammon’s shrine you still devoutly bow. PHILANDER. Vain would th’ attempts of either be to hold My am’rous heart, without the force of gold: Beauty an empty trifle still I deem, A childish toy, unworthy of esteem. Its gaudy foliage may attract the eye; But as the tulip it will fade and die: The glowing cheek enamour’d fops may prize, But men of sense can ruby lips despise. And what is wit? a giddy flutt’ring thing, Which can no real satisfaction bring. A thousand ills attend his wretched life, Whose dear companion is a witty wife: Still she is right, and ever in the wrong, Such elocution dwells upon her tongue. But if assisted by the Muse’s skill, He sure may dread the poison of her quill; She with keen satire lashes all around, And with the rest her husband feels the wound. Should poverty, by sudden threats alarm, Can wit with all its power now prove a charm? The fairest flowers Parnassus ere could boast, Yield to the treasures of the golden coast. The maid who comes fraught with that precious ore, Brings virtue, wit, and beauty all in store; This gives the palid cheek a crimson glow, The tawny skin the tincture of the snow. This makes the dwarf complete in ev’ry part: She wounds most sure who throws the golden dart. Short of one foot, distorted of one eye, Struck by its lustre, no defects I spy. DAMON.