V. Am not I Youthful, and as gay a Swain, As e’er appeared upon the Plain? Have I not courted you with all th’ Address An am’rous Shepherd cou’d profess? And add to this, my Flocks and Herds are great, But _Phillis_ only can my Joy compleat. VI. Yet you no Reason for your Coldness give, And ‘tis but just you shou’d believe That all your Beauties unadorn’d by Art, Have hurt and not oblig’d my Heart. Be kind to that, my hearty Vows return And then I’ll tell you why, for what I burn. FAMILIAR LETTERS, 1718. _A Letter to the Earl of_ Kildare, _dissuading him from marrying_ Moll Howard. My Lord, We pity such as are by Tempest lost, And those by Fortune’s blind Disposal crost; But when Men see, and may the Danger shun, Yet headlong into certain Ruin run: To pity such, must needs be Ridicule; Do not (my Lord) be that unpity’d Fool. There’s a report, which round the Town is spread, } The fam’d _Moll Howard_ you intend to Wed; } If it be true, my Lord, then guard your Head: } Horns, Horns, by wholesale, will adorn your Brows, If e’r you make that rampant Whore your Spouse. Think on the lewd Debauches of her Life; Then tell me, if she’s fit to be your Wife. She that to quench her lustful, hot Desire, } Has Kiss’d with Dukes, Lords, Knights, and Country Squire; } Nay, Grooms and Footmen have been claw’d off by her. } Whoring has all her Life-time been her Trade, And _D----set_ says, she is an exc’lent Baud: But finding both will not defray Expence, She lately is become an _Evidence_; Swears against all that won’t her Lust supply, And says, they’re false as Hell to Monarchy. You had a Wife; but, rest her Soul, she’s dead, By whom your Lordship by the Nose was led: And will you run into that Noose again, To be the greatest Monster among Men? Think on the Horns that will adorn your Head, And the Diseases that will fill your Bed: Pox upon Pox, most horrid and most dire! And Ulcers filled with Hell’s Eternal Fire. Forbear therefore, and call your Senses home; Let Reason Love’s blind Passion overcome: For, if you make this base Report once true, You’ll wound your Honour, Purse, and Body too. _To Mrs._ Price. My Dear, In your last, you admir’d how I cou’d pass my Time so long in the Country: I am sorry your Taste is so deprav’d, as not to relish a Country-Life. Now I think there’s no Satisfaction to be found amidst an Urban Throng (as Mr. _Bayes_ calls it).