'Twas a Doubt in Debate among Sages of yore,
Whether Women , or Wine , had more absolute Power;
Now had I been the Judge, when the Matter was done,
Not one had been wiser, than when it begun:
For how can Man tell, which the strongest to call,
When with the same Ease, both can give him a Fall?

Like Alexander, Caelia spreads her Power,
Like Him, She makes the Vassal-World Adore;
But, ah! like Him , to sooth a proud Desire,
First conquers Towns , then sets those Towns on Fire .

Bright, as those glittering Worlds that roll above,
Are Women , when in Virtue's Orb they move;
But then, like Stars , once fall'n, their Light they lose ,
Unheeded fade, and turn to Slime , like those .

Who is most Beautiful, when Angry.
C Ælia , methinks, that sweet contracted Brow,
Resembles angry Cupid 's bended Bow;
Like, That, it aims a Stroke at every Heart,
Whilst either Eye supplies a keener Dart.

Laura , you say, these sable Spots impart,
The seemly Tokens of each Love-burnt Heart;
As conquer'd Trophies grace some sacred Shrine,
So they adorn a Power, as much Divine:
But if, among those Conquests of your Eyes,
My humble Heart can prove a worthy Prize;
O let your Lip the faithful Token wear,
And let me live on endless Kisses there!

If Laura weep for those her Eyes have slain,
Then Smile , my Fair, and we'll revive again.

Y OU love a simile; — why then have at you:
You are in Scripture the Assyrian Statue;
Of you , with equal truth, it may be said,
The feet are clay , but golden is the head .

M Y little flock, your Shepherd hail!
Feed in his consecrated vale!
Admetus's fam'd sheep you follow,
And are to pass before Apollo .

When the mare to your villa has just brought me down,
I interrogate you, " What 's the news of the town?"
To my chambers if you for variety go,
Learn of me " how your peas and your cucumbers grow!"

Don Crassus plum'd with Bacularian Pride,
A Cap , a Gown , and eke a Robe beside;
Pedantically saunters up and down,
To satisfy the misbelieving Town,
Proud of Himself — but prouder of his Gown .
And well he may so; for the dapper Fellow
Is but poor Fustian , tho' his Gown 's Prunello!