Графични страници
PDF файл

Let mine, an innocent gay farce appear,

And more diverting still than regular,

Have Humour, Wit, a native Eafe and Grace,
Though not too strictly bound to Time and Place:
Critics in Wit, or Life, are hard to please,

Few write to thofe, and none can live to these.



Too much your Sex are 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, but not your pride;

By Nature yielding, stubborn but for fame;


Made Slaves by honour, and made fools by Shame.
Marriage may all thofe petty Tyrants chace,

But fets up one, a greater in their place:

Well might you wish for change by thofe accurst,
But the laft Tyrant ever proves the worst.


Still in constraint your fuffering Sex remains,

Or bound in formal, or in real chains:

Whole years neglected, for fome months ador'd,

The fawning Servant turns a haughty Lord.

Ah, quit not the free innocence of life,


For the dull glory of a virtuous Wife;

Nor let falfe Shews, nor empty Titles please:

Aim not at Joy, but reft content with Eafe.

The Gods, to curfe Pamela with her prayers,
Gave the gilt Coach and dappled Flanders Mares,
The fhining robes, rich jewels, beds of ftate,
And, to complete her blifs, 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 her outward part; 55
She fighs, and is no Dutchefs at her heart.

But, Madam, if the fates withstand, and you
Are deftin'd Hymen's willing Victim too;
Trust not too much your now refiftless charms,
Thofe, Age or Sickness, soon or late difarms :
Good-humour only teaches charms to last,
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 flowery bands in wantonness are worn,
A morning's pleasure, and at evening 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 sparkling, and their flames ftill warm.

Now crown'd with Myrtle, on th' Elyfian coaft,

Amid thofe Lovers, joys his gentle Ghost:


Pleas'd, while with smiles his happy lines you view, 75 And finds a fairer Ramboüillet in you.

The brightest eyes in France inspir'd his Muse;

The brightest eyes in Britain now perufe ;

And dead, as living, 'tis our Author's pride
Still to charm those who charm the world befide.

*Mademoiselle Paulet.


[merged small][ocr errors][merged small]




On her leaving the Town after the Coronation, 1715.


S fome fond Virgin, whom her mother's care

Drags from the Town to wholesome Country air, Juft when she learns to roll a melting eye,

And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh;
From the dear man unwilling she must fever,
Yet takes one kifs before fhe 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, Assembly, Play,
To morning-walks, and prayers three hours a-day;
To part her time 'twixt reading and Bohea,

To mufe, and spill 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 stories to the 'Squire ;
Up to her godly garret after seven,

There ftarve and pray, for that's the way to heaven.
Some 'Squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack;
Whofe game is Whift, whofe treat a toaft in fack:






Who vifits with a gun, prefents you birds,
Then gives a fmacking bufs, and cries,-No words!
Or with his hounds comes hallooing from the ftable,
Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table;
Whofe laughs are hearty, though his jefts are coarfe,
And loves you beft of all things-but his horfe.

In fome fair evening, on your elbow laid,
You dream of Triumphs in the rural shade;
In penfive thought recall the fancy'd scene,
See Coronations rife on every green;

Before you pafs th' imaginary fights





Of Lords, and Earls, and Dukes, and garter'd Knights,
While the fpread fan o'erfhades your closing eyes;
Then give one flirt, and all the vifion flics.
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 plague'd with head-achs, or the want of rhyme)
Stands in the streets, abftracted from the crew,
And while he seems to ftudy, thinks of you.
Juft when his fancy points your fprightly eyes,
Or fees the blush of foft Parthenia rife,

Gay pats my fhoulder, and you vanish quite,
Streets, Chairs, and Coxcombs, rush upon my fight;
Vex'd to be still in town, I knit my brow,


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


[blocks in formation]








HE Baffet-Table spread, the Tallier come; Why stays Smilinda in the Dreffing-room ? Rife, penfive Nymph; the Tallier waits for you.


Ah, Madam, fince my Sharper is untrue,
I joyless make my once ador'd Alpheu.
I saw him stand behind Ombrelia's Chair,
And whisper with that soft, deluding air,

And those feign'd fighs which cheat the listening


Is this the cause of your romantic strains?
A mightier grief my heavy heart fuftains.
As You by Love, so I by Fortune cross'd;
One, one bad Deal, Three Septlevas have loft.


Is that the grief, which you compare with mine?
With ease, the smiles of Fortune I refign:
Would all my gold in one bad Deal were gone;
Were lovely Sharper mine, and mine alone.




« ПредишнаНапред »