Till death scarce felt his gentle breath fuppreft,
As finiling infants sport themselves to reft:
Ev'n rival wits did Voiture's fate deplore,
And the gay mourn'd who never mourn'd before;
The trueft hearts for Voiture heav'd with fighs,
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 ftrict life of graver mortals be
A long, exact, and ferious comedy,
In ev'ry scene fome 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 ftill than regular,
Have humour, wit, a native eafe 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 fex is by their forms confin'd,
Severe to all, but most to womankind;
Cuftom, grown blind with age, must be your guide;
Your pleasure is a vice, but not your pride;
By nature yielding, ftubborn but for fame;
Made flaves by honour, and made fools by fhame.
Marriage may all those petty tyrants chafe,
But fets up one, a greater, in their place;
Well might you wish for change, by thofe accurft,
But the last tyrant ever proves the worst.
Still in constraint your fuff'ring fex remains,
Or bound in formal, or in real chains;
Whole years neglected for fome months ador'd,
The fawning fervant turns a haughty lord;
Ah quit not the free innocence of life,
For the dull glory of a virtuous wife!
Nor let falfe shows, or empty titles please ;
Aim not at joy, but reft content with ease.
The Gods, to curse Pamela with her pray'rs,
Gave the gilt coach and dappled Flanders mares,
The fhining robes, rich jewels, beds of ftate,
And, to compleat her blifs, 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 Duchefs at her heart.
But, Madam, if the fates withftand, and you
Are deftin'd Hymen's willing victim too,
Trust not too much your now refiftless charms,
Thofe, age or fickness, foon or late, difarms;
Good humour only teaches charms to laft,
Still makes new conquefts, and maintains the paft:
Love, rais'd on beauty, will like that decay,
Our hearts may bear its flender chain a day,
As flow'ry bands in wantonnefs 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 ftill fhone the fame, And Monthaufier was only chang'd in name; By this, ev'n now they live, ev'n now they charm, Their wit ftill fparkling, and their flames ftill warm.
Now crown'd with myrtle, on th' Elysian coaft,
Amidst those lovers, joys his gentle ghost:
Pleas'd, while with fmiles his happy lines you view,
And finds a fairer Rambouillet in you.
The brighteft eyes of France infpir'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 befide.
On her leaving the Town after the CORONATION.
S fome fond virgin, whom her mother's care,
Drags from the town to wholfome coun-
trey air,
Juft when she learns to roll a melting eye,
And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh;
From the dear man unwilling fhe muft fever,
Yet takes one kifs 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 figh'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, affembly, play,
To morning walks, and pray'rs three hours a day;
To part her time, 'twixt reading and bohea,
To mufe, and fpill her folitary 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 ftories to the squire;
Up to her godly garret after fev'n,
There ftarve and pray for that's the way to heav'n.
Some fquire, perhaps, you take delight to rack;
Whofe game is whisk, whofe treat a toast in fack,
Who vifits with a gun, prefents you birds,
Then gives a fmacking bufs, and cries--No words!
Or with his hound comes hollowing from the ftable,
Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table;
Whofe laughs are hearty, tho' his jefts are coarse,
And loves you beft of all things-but his horse.
In fome fair evening, on your elbow laid,
You dream of triumphs in the rural fhade;
In penfive thought recall the fanfy'd scene,
See coronations rife on ev'ry green,
Before you pass th' imaginary fights
Of lords, and earls, and dukes, and garter'd knights;
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