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Till death scarce felt his gentle breath supprest,
As smiling infants sport themselves to reft:
Ey'n rival wits did Voiture's fate deplore;
And the gay mourn'd who never mourn'd before;
The truest hearts for Voiture heav'd with sighs,
Voiture was wept by all the brightest eyes;
The smiles and loves had dy'd in Voiture's death,
But that for ever in his lines they breathe.
Let the strict life of graver mortals be.
A long, exact, and serious comedy,
In ev'ry scene some moral let it teach,
And, if it can, at once both please and preach:
Let mine, like Voiture's, a gay farce appear,
And more diverting still than regular,
Have humour, wit, a native ease and grace;;
No matter for the rules of time and place.
Critics in wit, or life, are hard to please,
Few write to those, and none can live to these.
Too much your sex is by their forms confin'd,
Severe to all, but most to womankind ;
Custom, grown blind with age, must be your guide ;
Your pleasure is a vice, but not your pride;
By nature yielding, stubborn but for fame;
Made Naves by honour, and made fools by shame:
Marriage may all those petty tyrants chase,
But sets up one, a greater, in their place ;
Well might you wish for change, by those accurit,
But the last tyrant ever proves the worft.
Still in constraint your fuff'ring sex remains,
Or bound in formal, or in real chains ;
Whole years neglected for some months ador'd,
The fawning servant turns a haughty lord;
Ah qait not the free innocence of life,
For the dull glory of a virtuous wife !
Nor let false shows, or empty titles please ;
Aim not at joy, but rest content with ease.
The Gods, to curse Pamela with her pray’rs,
Gave the gilt coach and dappled Flanders mares,
The shining robes, rich jewels, beds of state,
And, to compleat her bliss, a fool for mate.
She glares in balls, front-boxes, and the ring,
A vain, unquiet, glitt'ring, wretched thing!
Pride, pomp, and ftate but reach her outward part,
She fighs, and is no Duchess at her heart.
But, Madam, if the fates withstand, and you
Are destin'd Hymen's willing victim too,
Trust not too much your now resisless charms,
Those, age or sickness, foon or late, difarms;
Good humour only teaches charins to laft,
Still makes new conquests, and maintains the past:
Love, rais'd on beauty, will like that decay,
Our hearts may bear its flender chain a day,
As flow'ry bands in wantonness are worn;
A morning's pleasure, and at ev'ning torn;
This binds in ties more easy, yet more strong,
The willing heart, and only holds it long.
Thus * Voiture's early care still shone the same,
And Monthaufier was only chang'd in name;
By this, ev'n now they live, ev'n now they charm,
Their wit still sparkling, and their flames still warm.
Now crown'd with myrtle, on th'Elysian coast, Amidst those lovers, joys his gentle ghost: Pleas'd, while with smiles his happy lines you view, And finds a fairer Rambowillet in you. The brightest eyes of France inspir'd his muse, The brightest eyes of Britain now peruse, And dead as living, 'tis our author's pride, Still to charm those who charm the world beside.
S fome fond virgin, whom her mother's care,
Drags from the town to wholsome coun-
Just when the learns to roll a melting eye,
And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh;
From the dear man unwilling the muft sever,
Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever.
Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew,
Saw others happy, and with fighs withdrew;
Not that their pleasures caus'd her discontent,
She sigh'd not that they stay'd, but that she went.
She went to plain-work, and to purling brooks, Old-fashion'd halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks:
She went from op'ra, park, assembly, play,
To morning walks, and pray'rs three hours a day;
To part her time, 'twixt reading and bohea,
To muse, and spill her solitary tea,
Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon,
Count the flow clock, and dine exact at noon ;
Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire,
Hum half a tune, tell stories to the squire ;
Up to her godly garret after fev'n,
There starve and pray for that's the way to heav'n.
Some squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack;
Whose game is whisk, whose treat a toast in
Who visits with a gun, presents you birds,
Then gives a smacking buss, and criesNowords!
Or with his hound comes hollowing from the stable,
Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table;
Whose laughs are hearty, tho' his jests are coarse,
And loves you best of all things but his horse.
In some fair evening, on your elbow laid, You dream of triumphs in the rural shade; In pensive thought recall the fansy'd scene, See coronations rise on ev'ry green, Before you pass th' imaginary fightsOf lords, and earls, and dukes, and garter'd knights ;