No matter, there's a point already gained; For she, who reads, in time will answer too: Things must be left by just degrees to grow. Perhaps she writes, but answers with disdain, And sharply bids you not to write again: What she requires, she fears you should accord; The jilt would not be taken at her word. Mean time, if she be carried in her chair, Approach, but do not seem to know she's there. Speak softly, to delude the standers by; Or, if aloud, then speak ambiguously. If sauntering in the portico she walk, Move slowly too, for that's a time for talk; And sometimes follow, sometimes be her guide, But, when the crowd permits, go side by side. Nor in the play-house let her sit alone; For she's the play-house, and the play, in one. There thou may'st ogle, or by signs advance Thy suit, and seem to touch her hand by chance. Admire the dancer who her liking gains, And pity in the play the lover's pains: For her sweet sake the loss of time despise; Sit while she sits, and when she rises, rise. But dress not like a fop, nor curl your hair, Nor with a pumice make your body bare; Leave those effeminate and useless toys To eunuchs, who can give no solid joys. Neglect becomes a man; thus Theseus found; Uncurled, uncombed, the nymph his wishes crowned. The rough Hippolytus was Phædra's care; And Venus thought the rude Adonis fair. Be not too finical; but yet be clean, And wear well-fashioned clothes, like other men. Let not your teeth be yellow, or be foul, Nor in wide shoes your feet too loosely roll; Of a black muzzle, and long beard, beware, And let a skilful barber cut your hair; Your nails be picked from filth, and even pared, Nor let your nasty nostrils bud with beard; Cure your unsavoury breath, gargle your throat, And free your armpits from the ram and goat: Dress not, in short, too little or too much; And be not wholly French, nor wholly Dutch. Now Bacchus calls me to his jolly rites; Who would not follow, when a God invites? He helps the poet, and his pen inspires, Kind and indulgent to his former fires. Fair Ariadne wandered on the shore, Forsaken now, and Theseus loved no more: Loose was her gown, dishevelled was her hair, Her bosom naked, and her feet were bare; Exclaiming, on the water's brink she stood; Her briny tears augment the briny flood. She shrieked, and wept, and both became her face; No posture could that heavenly form disgrace. She beat her breast: The traitor's gone, said she; What shall become of poor forsaken me? What shall become----she had not time for more, The sounding cymbals rattled on the shore. She swoons for fear, she falls upon the ground; No vital heat was in her body found. The Mimallonian dames about her stood, And scudding satyrs ran before their God.