Nature its Mother, Habit is its Nurse;
Wit, Spirit, Faculties, but make it worse;
Reason itself but gives it edge and pow'r,
As Heav'n's blest Beam turns Vinegar more sow'r.
The ruling Passion, be it what it will,
The ruling Passion conquers Reason still.
We, wretched subjects tho' to lawful sway,
In this weak Queen, some Fav'rite still obey.
Ah! if she lend not Arms as well as Rules,
What can she more, than tell us we are Fools?
Teach us to mourn our nature, not to mend,
A sharp Accuser, but a helpless Friend?
Or from a Judge turn Pleader, to persuade
The choice we make, or justify it made?
Proud of imagin'd Conquests all along,
She but removes weak Passions for the strong;
So, when small Humours gather to a Gout,
The Doctor fancies he has driv'n them out.