But self-conceit steps in, and with strict eye
Scans every man, and every man awry;
That reigning passion, which thro' every stage
Of life, still haunts us with unceasing rage.
No quality so mean, but what can raise
Some drudging driveling candidate for praise;
Ev'n in the wretch, who wretches can despise,
Still self-conceit will find a time to rise.
Quintus salutes you with forbidding face,
And thinks he carries his excuse in lace:
You ask, why Clodius bullies all he can?
Clodius will tell you, he's a gentleman:
Myrtilla struts and shudders half the year,
With a round cap, that shews a fine turn'd ear:
The lowest jest makes Delia laugh to death;
Yet she's no fool, she has only handsome teeth.
Ventoso lolls, and scorns all human kind
From the gilt coach with four lac'd slaves behind;
Does all this pomp and state proceed from merit?
Mean thought! he deems it nobler to inherit:
While Fopling from some title draws his pride,
Meanless, or infamous, or misapply'd;
Free-mason, rake or wit, 'tis just the same,
The charm is hence, he has gain'd himself a name.
Yet, spite of all the fools that pride has made,
'Tis not on man an useless burthen laid;
Pride has ennobled some, and some disgrac'd;
It hurts not in itself, but as 'tis plac'd;
When right, its view knows none but virtue's bound;
When wrong, it scarcely looks one inch around.
Mark! with what care the fair one's critic eye
Scans o'er her dress, nor let's a fault slip by;
Each rebel hair must be reduc'd to place
With tedious skill, and tortur'd into grace;
Betty must o'er and o'er the pins dispose,
'Till into modish folds the drapery flows,
And the whole frame is fitted to express
The charms of decency and nakedness.
Why all this art, this labour'd ornament;
To captivate, you'll cry no doubt, 'tis meant.
True. But let's wait upon this fair machine
From the lone closet to the social scene;
There view her loud, affected, scornful, sour,
Paining all others, and herself still more.
What means she, at one instant to disgrace,
The labour of ten hours, her much-lov'd face?
Why, 'tis the self-same passion gratify'd;
The work is ruin'd, that was rais'd by pride.