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Too much your sex is by their forms confin'd, Severe to all, but most to womankind; Custom, grown blind with age, must be your guide; Your pleasure is a vice, bnt not your pride; By nature yielding, stubborn but for fame, Made slaves by honour, and made fools by shame. Marriage may all those petty tyrants chase, But sets up one, a greater, in their place : Well might you wish for change by those accurs'd; But the last tyrant ever proves the worst. Still in constraint your suffering sex remains, Or bound in formal or in real chains : Whole years neglected for some months ador'd, The fawning servant turns a hanghty lord. Ah! quit not the free innocence of life For the dull glory of a virtuous wife ; Nor let false shows nor empty titles please : Aim not at joy, but rest content with ease.
The gods, to curse Pamela with her pray'rs, Gave the gilt coach and dappled Flanders mares, The shining robes, rich jewels, beds of state, And, to complete ber bliss, a fool for mate. She glares in balls, front-boxes, and the ring, A vain, unquiet, glittering, wretched thing! Pride, pomp, and state, but reach ber outward part; 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-bumour 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 sleuder chain a day,
As flowery bands in wantonness are worn,
Thus Voiture's early care' still shooe the same,
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, And tinds a fairer Rambouillet in you. The brightest eyes of France inspir'd bis 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.
TO THE SAME,
ON HER LEAVING THE TOWN AFTER THE CORONA
As some fond virgin, whom her mother's care
1 Mademoiselle Paulet.
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; 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 yon 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 recal the fancied scene, See coronations rise on every green: Before you pass the’ imaginary sights Oflords, and earls, and dukes, and garter'd knights, While the spread fan o'ershades your closing eyes; Then give one flirt, and all the vision Hies. Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls, And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls!
So when your slave, at some dear idle time, (Not plagued with headachs or the want of rhyme) Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew, And while he seems to study, thinks of you;
Just when his fancy points your sprightly eyes,
TO MR. JOHN MOORE,
AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED WORM-POWDER.
How much, egregious Moore ! are we
Deceiv'd by shows and forms!
All human kind are worms.
Man is a very worm by birth,
Vile reptile, weak, and vain!
Then shrinks to earth again.
That woman is a worm we find,
E'er since our grandam's evil ;
That ancient worin, the devil.
The learn'd themselves we book-worms name,
The blockhead is a slow-worm;
Is aptly term'd a glow-worm.
The fops are painted butterflies
That flutter for a day;
And in a worm decay,
The flatterer an ear-wig grows;
Thus worms suit all conditions ; Misers are nuck-worms; silk-worms, beaux;
And death-watches, physicians.
That statesmen have the worm, is
By all their winding play;
That goaws them night and day.
Ah, Moore! thy skill were well employ'd,
And greater gain would rise,
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 ev'n thee.
Our fate thou only canst adjourn
Some few short years, no more !
Who maggots were before.