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Still in constraint your suffering sex remains,
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 Are destin'd Hymen's willing victim too, Trust not too much your now resistless charms; Those age or sickness, soon or late, disarms; Good-humour only teaches charms to last, Still makes new conquests, and maintains the
may bear its slender chain a day,
Thus Voiture's early care 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
Now crown'd with myrtle on th' Elysian coast, Amid those lovers joys his gentle ghost; Pleas'd while with smiles his happy lines you view, And finds a fairer Rambouillet 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.
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 ; Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire, Hum half a tune, tell stories to the squire; Up to her godly garret after seven, 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 ballooing 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.
In some fair evening, on your elbow laid, You dream of triumphs in the rural shade; In pensive thought recall the fancied scene, See coronations rise on every green : Before you pass th' imaginary sights Of lords and earls and dukes and garter'd knights,
While the spread fan o'ershades your closing eyes ;
So when your slave, at some dear idle time
TO MR. JOHN MOORE,
AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED WORM-POWDER.
How much, egregious Moore! are we
Man is a very worm by birth,
That woman is a worm we find, E’er since our grandam’s evil: 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, is seen By all their winding play; Their conscience is a worm within, That gnaws them night and day. Ah, Moore, thy skill were well employ'd, And greater gain would rise, If thou couldst make the courtier void The worm that never dies ! O learned friend of Abchurch-lane, Who sett'st our entrails free, Vain is thy art, thy powder vain, Since worms shall eat e'en thee.