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His eafy art may happy nature feem;
Trifles themfelves are elegant in him.
Sure to charm all was his peculiar fate,

Who without flatt'ry pleas'd the fair and great;
Still with esteem no lefs convers'd than read;
With wit well-natur'd, and with books well-bred :
His heart his miftrefs and his friend did fhare,
His time the Mufe, the witty, and the fair.
Thus wifely carelefs, innocently gay,
Cheerful he play'd the trifle life away;
Till Fate fcarce felt his gentle breath fuppreft,
As fmiling infants fport themselves to rest.
Ev'n rival wits did Voiture's death 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 fcene fome mortal let it teach,

And, if it can, at once both please and preach :
Let mine an innocent gay farce appear,

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And more diverting ftill than regular ;

Have humour, wit, a native eafe and grace,
'Tho' not too ftrictly bound to time and place.
Critics in wit or life are hard to please ;
Few write to thofe, and none can live to thefe.

Too much your fex is by their forms confin'd, Severe to all, but moft to womanki.l: 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 shame. Marriage may all those petty tyrants chafe, But fets up one, a greater, in their place : Well might you with for change by thofe accurft; But the laft tyrant ever proves the worst. Still in conftraint your fuff'ring fex remains, Or bound in formal or in real chains:

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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 thews or empty titles please:
Aim not at joy, but reft content with ease.
The gods, to curfe Pamela with her pray'rs,
Gave the gilt coach and dappled Flanders mares, 50
The fhining robes, rich jewels, beds of ftate,
And, to complete her bliis, a fool for mate.
She glares in balls, front-boxes, and the ring,
A vain, unquiet, glitt'ring, wretched thing!
Pride, pomp, and state, 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,
Truft not too much your now refiftless charms,]
Thoie age or ficknefs, foon or late, difarms;
Good humour only teaches charms to laft,
Still makes new conquefts, 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 wantonnefs are worn,
A morning's pleasure, and at ev'ning torn;
This binds in ties more eafy, 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 still spawling, and their flames still warm. Now crown'd with myrtle on th' Elyfian coaft, Amid thofe lovers joys his gentle ghoit; Pleas'd while with fimiles his happy lines you view, And finds a fairer Rambouillet in you. The brighteit eyes of France infpir'd his Mufe; The brightest eyes of Britain now perufe ; And dead, as living, 'tis our author's pride, Still to charm thofe who charm the world befide.

Mademoiselle Paulet.

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EPISTLE

EPISTLE V.

To the fame, on her leaving, the Town after the Coronation, 1715.

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AS fome fond virgin, whom her mother's care
Drags from the Town to wholefome country air,
Juft when she learns to roll a melting eye,
And hear a fpark, yet think no danger nigh,
From the dear man unwilling fhe must fever,
Yet takes one kifs before the 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 opera, 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 fquire;
Up to her godly garret after sev’n,

There ftarve and pray, for that's the way to heav'n.
Some fquire, perhaps, you take delight to rack,
Whofe game is Whift, 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 hounds comes hallowing 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 horfe.
In fome fair ev'ning, on your elbow laid,
You dream of triumphs in the rural shade;
In penfive thought recall the fancy'd fcene,
See coronations rife on ev'ry green:
Before you pass th' imaginary fights

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Of lords, and earls, and dukes, and garter'd knights,

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While

While the fpread fan o'erfhades your clofing eyes,
Then give one flirt, and all the vifion flies.
Thus vanish fceptres, coronets and balls,
And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls!
So when your flave, at fome dear idle time,
(Not plagu'd with headachs or the want of rhyme,)
Stands in the streets abftracted from the crew,
And while he feems to study, thinks of you;
Juft when his fancy points your sprightly eyes,
Or fees the blush of foft Parthenia rife,
Gay pats my fhoulder, and you vanquish quite,
Streets, chairs, and coxcombs, rush upon my fight :
Vext to be still in Town I knit my brow,

Look four, and hum a tune, as you may now.

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To Mr. John Moore, Author of the celebrated
Worm-powder.

HOW much, egregious Moore! are we
Deceiv'd by thews and forms!

Whate'er we think, whate'er we fee,
All humankind are worms.

Man is a very worm by birth,
Vile reptile, weak, and vain!
A while he crawls upon the earth,
Then fhrinks to earth again.

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The fops are painted butterflies
That flutter for a day;

First from a worm they take their rife,
And in a worm decay.

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Mifers are muck-worms, filk-worms beaus,
And death-watches phyficians.

That statesmen have the worm, is feen

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By all their winding play;

Their confcience is a worm within,

That gnaws them night and day.

Ah, Moore! thy skill were, well employ'd,
And greater gain would rife,

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If thou couldst make the courtier void

The worm that never dies!

O learned friend of Abchurch-lane,
Who fett'ft our entrails free ;

Vain is thy art, thy powder vain,

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Since worms fhall eat ev'n thee.

Our fate thou only canft adjourn
Some few short years, no more!

Ev'n Button's wits to worms fhall turn,

Who maggots were before.

EPISTLE VII.

To Mrs. M. B. on her Birth-day.

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OH! be thou blefs'd with all that Heav'n can send,
Long health, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend;
Not with those toys the female world admire,
Riches that vex, and vanities that tire.
With added years, if life bring nothing new,
But like a fieve let ev'ry bleffing thro',
Some joys ftill loft, as each vain year runs o'er,
And all we gain fome fad reflection more:
Is that a birth-day? 'tis, alas! too clear,
'Tis but the fun'ral of the former year.
Let joy or eafe, let affluence or content,
And the gay confcience of a life well spent,
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