Sylvæ, or, The second part of Poetical miscellanies

OVID. Amorum. Lib. 2. El. 4. That he loves Women of all sorts and sizes.

ALL blots I cannot from my manners wipe, Nor say I walk uprightly when I slip. Press'd with my faults I to confession fall, In pain, and mad till I lay open all. I sin, and I repent; rub off the score, And then, like wild, I dip agen for more. I cannot rule my self, like Pinnace tost In Storms, the Rudder gone, and Compass lost.

No certain shape or features stint my mind, I still for love a thousand reasons find. Here one commends my verse, in equity If I please her, she surely pleases me: But if malicious witty things she said, I think how she wou'd repartee in bed. If artless she, my Heart on Nature doats; If learn'd, I long to be conferring notes. If no great sense or parts the Damsel show, Still I conclude she wants it not below. Do looks demure the inward spark conceal? She deals by Great that can dissemble well. Or is she Free and forward to engage, I hate fatigue, I am not for a siege. The meek and mild my sure affections keep, Yet love a shrew, because she is no Sheep. Does she look pale? I fancy whence it came; Is she a Rose? Assure am I a flame,

That living Snow my passion strangely warms, And straight I wish her melting in mine Arms. The tall appears Heroick to the Eye, Yet n'er so small she were enough for me. If little, then I think how quick she moves, If large, who wou'd not roul in what he loves? Lean Skeleton my fancy never snubs; But is she plump? 'Tis then my pretty subs. And doubtless one may find convenient sport, With either fat or lean, or long or short. I like the mincing gate; and yet if wide She steps, O then I love her for her stride. That waddle was a grace in Montespan, These drowsie Eyes are perfect C— With yellow curles Aurora pleas'd her fop, And Leda (Iove well saw) was black a — top: The black or yellow to my mind agree, My love will sute with every History.

Widow, or Wife, I'm for a pad that's way'd; If Virgin, Oh! who wou'd not love a Maid? If she be young, I take her in the nick; If she has age, she helps it with a trick. If nothing charms me in her wit or face, She has her fiddle in some other place. Come every sort and size, the great or small, My love will find a tally for 'um all.