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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 past. Love rais'd on beauty will like that decay, Our hearts may bear its slender chain a day, As flowery bands in wantonness are worn, A morning's pleasure, and at evening 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 Monthausier 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 the' Elysian coast, Amid those lovers joys his gentle ghost;
Pleas'd while with smiles his happy lines you view,
The brightest eyes of France inspir'd his Muse;
To the same, on her leaving the Town after the Coronation. 1715.
S some fond virgin, whom her mother's care Drags from the town to wholesome country air, Just when she learns to roll a melting eye, And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh; From the dear man unwilling she must sever, Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever: Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew, Saw others happy, and with sighs 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 opera, park, assembly, play,
To morning walks, and pray'rs three hours a day;
Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon,
There starve and pray, for that's the way to heaven.
Before you pass the' imaginary sights
Of lords, and earls, and dukes, and garter'd knights,
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,
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 book-worms name,
The blockhead is a slow-worm;
The nymph whose tail is all on flame,
Is aptly term'd a glow-worm.
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 ear-wig grows;
Thus worms suit all conditions;
Misers are muck-worms; silk-worms, beaus ;
And death-watches, 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,
If thou couldst make the courtier void
O learned friend of Abchurch-lane,
Our fate thou only canst adjourn
Ev'n Button's wits to worms shall turn,
To Mrs. M. B. on her Birth-Day.
H be thou bless'd with all that Heav'n can send,
Not with those toys the female world admire,
Let joy or ease, let affluence or content,
To Mr. T. Southern, on his Birth-Day. 1742.
ESIGN'D to live, prepar'd to die,
With not one sin but poetry,
And Ireland, mother of sweet singers,
To Mr. Addison; occasioned by his Dialogues on Medals.
EE the wild waste of all-devouring years! How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears! With nodding arches, broken temples spread! The very tombs now vanish'd like their dead! Imperial wonders rais'd on nations spoil'd, Where, mix'd with slaves, the groaning martyr toil'd: Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods, Now drain'd a distant country of her floods; Fanes, which admiring gods with pride survey, Statues of men, scarce less alive than they! Some felt the silent stroke of mouldering age, Some hostile fury, some religious rage: