nd art direct them.

She likes herself, yet others hates
For that which in herself she prizes;
And, while she laughs at them, forgets
She is the thing which she despises.

What could Amoret have done to bring down such shafts of ridicule upon
her? Could she have resisted the irresistible Mr. Congreve? Could anybody?
Could Sabina, when she woke and heard such a bard singing under her
window. See, he writes--

See! see, she wakes--Sabina wakes!
And now the sun begins to rise:
Less glorious is the morn, that breaks
From his bright beams, than her fair eyes.
With light united day they give;
But different fates ere night fulfil:
How many by his warmth will live!
How many will her coldness kill!

Are you melted? Don't you think him a divine man? If not touched by the
brilliant Sabina, hear the devout Selinda:--

Pious Selinda goes to prayers,
If I but ask her favour;
And yet the silly fool's in tears,
If she believes I'll leave her:
Would I were free from this restraint,
Or else had hopes to win her:
Would she could make of me a saint,
Or I of her a sinner!

What a conquering air there is about these! What an irresistible Mr.
Congreve it is! Sinner! of course he will be a sinner, the delightful
rascal! Win her; of course he will win her, the victorious rogue! He knows
he will: he must--with such a grace, with such a fashion, with such a
splendid embroidered suit--you see him with red-heeled shoes deliciously
turned out, passing a fair jewelled hand through his dishevelled periwig,
and delivering a killing ogle along with his scented billet. And Sabina?
What a comparison that is between the nymph and the sun! The sun gives
Sabina the _pas_, and does not venture to rise before her ladyship: the
morn's _bright beams_ are less glorious than her _fair eyes_: but before
night everybody will be frozen by her glances: everybody but one lucky
rogue who shall be nameless: Louis Quatorze in all his glory is hardly
more splendid than our Phoebus Apollo of the Mall and Spring Garden.(71)

When Voltaire came to visit the great Congreve, the latter rather affected
to despise his literary reputation, and in this perhaps the great Congreve
was not far wrong.(72) A touch of Steele's tenderness is worth all his
finery--a flash of Swift's lightning--a beam of Addison's pure sunshine, and
his tawdry play-house taper is invis