The HEAD-ACH. To AURELIA. AURELIA, when your Zeal makes known Each Woman's Failing but your own, How charming Silvia's Teeth decay, And Celia's Hair is turning gray: Yet Celia gay has sparkling Eyes, But (to your Comfort) is not wise: Methinks you take a world of pains, To tell us Celia has no Brains. Now you wise Folk, who make such a pother About the Wit of one another, With Pleasure wou'd your Brains resign, Did all your Noddles ach like mine. Not Cuckolds half my Anguish know, When budding Horns begin to grow; Nor batter'd Skull of wrestling Dick, Who late was drubb'd at single Stick; Not Wretches that in Fevers fry, Not Sappho when her Cap's awry, E'er felt such tort'ring Pangs as I; Nor Forehead of Sir Jeff'ry Strife, When smiling Cynthio kiss'd his Wife. Not love-sick Marcia's languid Eyes, Who for her simp'ring Corin dies, So sleepy look or dimly shine, As these dejected Eyes of mine: Nor Claudia's Brow such Wrinkles made At sight of Cynthia's new Brocade. Just so, Aurelia, you complain Of Vapours, Rheums, and gouty Pain; Yet I am patient, so shou'd you, For Cramps and Head-achs are our due: We suffer justly for our Crimes; For Scandal you, and I for Rhymes: Yet we (as harden'd Wretches do) Still the enchanting Vice pursue; Our Reformation ne'er begin, But fondly hug the Darling Sin. Yet there's a mighty diff'rence too, Between the Fate of me and you; Tho' you with tott'ring Age shall bow, And Wrinkles scar your lovely Brow; Your busy Tongue may still proclaim The Faults of ev'ry sinful Dame: You still may prattle nor give o'er, When wretched I must sin no more. The sprightly Nine must leave me then, This trembling Hand resign its Pen; No Matron ever sweetly sung, Apollo only courts the young; Then who wou'd not (Aurelia, pray) Enjoy his Favours while they may? Nor Cramps nor Head-achs shall prevail; I'll still write on, and you shall rail.