Still in constraint your suffering sex remains, Whole years neglected for some months ador'd, The gods, to curse Pamela with her prayers, She sighs, and is no duchess at her heart. But, madam, if the fates withstand, and you Love rais'd on beauty will like that decay. Thus Voiture's early care1 still shone the same, And Monthausier was only chang'd in name: By this e'en now they live, e'en now they charm, Their wit still sparkling, and their flames still warm. Now crown'd with myrtle on th' Elysian coast, The brightest eyes of France inspir'd his Muse; EPISTLE TO MRS. TERESA BLOUNT, ON HER LEAVING THE TOWN AFTER THE CORONATION.2 As some fond virgin, whom her mother's care 1 Mademoiselle Paulet. 2 Of King George the First. 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 opera, park, assembly, play, To morning walks, and prayers 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 slow clock, and dine exact at noon; There starve and pray, for that's the way to heaven. Some squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack, Whose game is whist, whose treat a toast in sack; Who visits with a gun, presents you birds, Then gives a smacking buss, and cries—no words; Or with his hounds comes hallooing from the stable, Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table; Whose laughs are hearty, though his jests are coarse, And loves you best of all things—but his horse. Of lords and earls and dukes and garter'd knights, While the spread fan o'ershades your closing eyes; TO MR. JOHN MOORE, AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED WORM-POWDER. How much, egregious Moore! are we Deceiv'd by shows and forms! Whate'er we think, whate'er we see, Man is a very worm by birth, Vile reptile, weak, and vain! That woman is a worm we find, She first convers'd with her own kind, That ancient worm, the devil. The learn'd themselves we bookworms name, The blockhead is a slowworm; The nymph whose tail is all on flame, Is aptly term'd a glowworm. The fops are painted butterflies, That flutter for a day; First from a worm they take their rise, And in a worm decay. The flatterer an earwig grows; Thus worms suit all conditions; Misers are muckworms; silkworms, beaux; And deathwatches, physicians. That statesmen have the worm, By all their winding play; is seen Their conscience is a worm within, Ah, Moore, thy skill were well employ'd, If thou couldst make the courtier void O learned friend of Abchurch-lane, Who sett❜st our entrails free, |