Sylvia My Heart In Wondrous Wise Alarm'D Awed Without Sense, And Without Beauty Charm'D: But Some Odd Graces And Some Flights She Had, Was Just Not Ugly, And Was Just Not Mad: Her Tongue Still Ran On Credit From Her Eyes, More Pert Than Witty, More A Wit Than Wise: Good-Nature, She Declared It, Was Her Scorn, Though 'Twas By That Alone She Could Be Borne: Affronting All, Yet Fond Of A Good Name; A Fool To Pleasure, Yet A Slave To Fame: Now Coy, And Studious In No Point To Fall, Now All Agog For D----Y At A Ball: Now Deep In Taylor, And The Book Of Martyrs, Now Drinking Citron With His Grace And Chartres. Men, Some To Business, Some To Pleasure Take; But Every Woman'S In Her Soul A Rake. Frail, Feverish Sex; Their Fit Now Chills, Now Burns: Atheism And Superstition Rule By Turns; And A Mere Heathen In The Carnal Part, Is Still A Sad Good Christian At Her Heart.