Fable II. the Phoenix and Her Lovers

That every female's a coquette, I could as safely swear upon a book, As I could safely bet, That every Frenchman is a cook. A Phoenix, daughter of the Sun, Chaste as a Vestal, modest as a Nun, Added such merit to her birth, That not a bird, tho' of the highest fashion, No feather'd coxcomb of the earth Ventur'd to declare his passion. They all agreed No earthly bird was worthy of her love; None but a bird of the celestial breed, An angel from above. The Phoenix liv'd so long a maid, 'Till all her gaiety and bloom Began to fade, And savour of the tomb. She mop'd, grew splenetic, and tir'd Of so much awe and so much state, Se long'd like other birds to be admir'd, Like other birds she long'd to find a mate. At last she issued out a proclamation To summon the male birds of every nation; Perhaps this summons, and this longing, Was a political machine, Just like the lovers that came thronging, Summon'd by our virgin queen. Now, from all quarters, The birds appear'd in their best cloaths; Nobles in stars and garters, Curled and embroider'd beaux. Some stately, others light and gay, One cooed, another sung and flatter'd, Some, like the Magpie and the Jay, For ever chatter'd. About the inner ring, Where all the birds of figure press, A bat whirl'd round with leathern wing, To show his shape and his address, Offering his heart, his eyes and wings to boot, At which there rose an universal hoot. The Phoenix answer'd in the tone, And in the self-same manner languish'd, As queen Elizabeth, when she was shown A taylor by her beauty vanquish'd; Take courage man, says she, For if I needs must have a taylor, I promise, without failure, To marry none but thee. And as the queen coquetted at an age When other queens are tame, 'Till she went off the stage, The Phoenix did the same. She died a great coquette, and, what is more, Rose from the grave a greater than before. The Phoenix and self-love are the same beast, Within the human breast, Which poets feign the spicy east, She builds her solitary nest; From whence, with every gale of wind, The traveller may smell the mind. Her lovers are our passions; these she meets, Either by appointment or by chance, Which if she can't indulge, she treats With smiles and complaisance. And as the Phoenix, from her ashes rais'd, Returns as blooming as a bride, So when we think it dies, the Lord be prais'd, Self-love springs up again with double pride. 'Tis a determin'd case, None but ourselves can occupy our place. For this same reason, physical and clear, Each individual of us all Is that same Phoenix, without any peer, On this terrestrial ball. A Lover is a mad-man, and a miser Not one jot wiser. Let any try, except a lover, Or one devoted to his pelf, Whether in all the world they can discover Another self.