« ПредишнаНапред »
Let mine, an innocent gay farce appear,
And more diverting still than regular,
Have Humour, Wit, a native Eafe and Grace,
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.
But fets up one, a greater in their place:
Well might you wish for change by thofe accurst,
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,
Pride, Pomp, and State, but reach her outward part; 55
But, Madam, if the fates withstand, and you
Our hearts may bear its flender chain a day;
As flowery bands in wantonness are worn,
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
TO THE SAME,
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;
She went to plain-work, and to purling brooks,
To mufe, and spill her folitary tea,
Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon,
There ftarve and pray, for that's the way to heaven.
Who vifits with a gun, prefents you birds,
In fome fair evening, on your elbow laid,
Before you pafs th' imaginary fights
Of Lords, and Earls, and Dukes, and garter'd Knights,
Gay pats my fhoulder, and you vanish quite,
Look four, and hum a Tune, as you may now.
BASSE T-T A BLE,
E CLOGU E.
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,
And those feign'd fighs which cheat the listening
Is this the cause of your romantic strains?
Is that the grief, which you compare with mine?