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How oft review ; each finding like a friend
Something to blame, and something to commend !

What flattering scenes our wandering fancy wrought, Rome's pompous glories rising to our thought! Together o'er the Alps methinks we fly,

25 Fir'd with Ideas of fair Italy. With thee on Raphael's Monument I mourn, Or wait inspiring Dreams at Maro's Um : With thee repose, where Tully once was laid, Or seek fome Ruin's formidable fhade :

30 While Fancy brings the vanith'd piles to view, And builds imaginary Rome anew. Here thy well-ftudied marbles fix our eye; A fading Fresco here demands a ligh: Each heavenly piece unwearied we compare, 35 Match Raphael's grace with thy lov'd Guido's air, Carracci's strength, Correggio's softer line, Paulo's free stroke, and Titian's warmth divine.

How finish'd with illustrious toil appears
This small, well-polith'd Gem, the work of years ! 40
Yet still how faint by precept is express’d
The living image in the painter's breast!
Thence endless streams of fair Ideas flow,
Strike in the sketch, or in the picture glow;
Thence Beauty, waking all her forms, supplies 45
An Angel's sweetness, or Bridgewater's eyes.

Muse! at that Name thy sacred sorrows shed,
Those tears eternal that embalm the dead;
Call round her Tomb each object of desire,
Each purer frame inform’d with purer fire :

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Bid her be all that chears or softens life,
The tender filter, daughter, friend, and wife:
Bid her be all that makes mankind adore ;
Then view this marble, and be vain no more !

Yet still her charms in breathing paint engage ;
Her modest cheek shall warm a future age.
Beauty, frail flower that every season fears,
Blooms in thy colours for a thousand years.
Thus Churchill's race shall other hearts surprize,
And other Beauties envy. Worsley's eyes;
Each pleasing Blount fhall endless smiles bestow,
And soft Belinda's blush for ever glow.

Oh, lasting as those Colours may they fine,
Free as thy stroke, yet faultless as thy line;
New graces yearly like thy works display,
Soft without weakness, without glaring gay ;
Led by some rule, that guides, but not conttrains ;
And finish'd more through happiness than pains !
The kindred Arts fhall in their praise conspire,
One dip the pencil, and one string the lyre.
Yet should the Graces all thy figures place,
And breathe an air divine on every face;
Yet should the Muses bid my numbers roll
Strong as their charms, and gentle as their foul ;
With Zeuxis' Helen thy Bridgewater vie,
And these be sung till Granville's Myra die:
Alas! how little from the grave we claim !
Thou but preserv'st a Face, and I a Name.

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IN these gay thoughts the Loves and Graces line,

And all the Writer lives in every line 1
His easy Art may happy Nature feem,
Trifles themselves are elegant in him.
Sure to charm all was his peculiar fate,

Who without flattery pleas*d the fair and great ;
Still with esteem no less convers'd than read ;
With wit well-natur'd, and with books well-bred :
His heart, his mistress and his friend did Mare,
His time, the Muse, the witty and the fair,
Thus wisely careless, innocently gay,
Chearful he play'd the trifle, Life, away ;
Till fate scące felt his gentle breath suppreft,
As smiling Infants (port themselves to reft.
Ev'n rival Wits did Voiture's death deplore, TS
And the gay mourn'd who never mourn'd before ;
The trueit hearts for Voiture heav'd with lighs,
Voiture was wept by all the brightest Eyes :
The Smiles and Loves had died in Voiture's death,
But that for ever in his lines they breathe.

Let the strict life of graver mortals be
A long, exact, and serious Comedy ;
In every scene fome Moral let it teach,
And, if it can, at once both please and preach.


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Let mine, an innocent


And more diverting still than regular,
Have Humour, Wit, a native Ease and Grace,
Though not too strictly bound to Time and Place:
Critics in Wit, or Life, are hard to please,
Few write to those, and none can live to these.

Too much your Sex are by their forms confind,
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; 35
Made Slaves by honour, and made fools by Shame.
Marriage may all those petty Tyrants chace,
But sets up one, a greater in their place :
Well might you wish for change by those accurft,
But the last Tyrant ever proves the worst.
Still in constraint your suffering Sex remains,
Or bound in formal, or in real chains:

years neglected, for some months ador'd, The fawning Servant turns a haughty Lord. Ah, quit not the free innocence of life,

45 For the dull glory of a virtuous Wife; Nor le: false Shews, nor empty Titles please : Aim not at Joy, but rest content with Ease.

The Gods, to curse Pamela with her prayers, Gave the gilt Coach and dappled Flanders Mares, 59 The shining robes, rich jewels, beds of state, And, to complete her bliss, a Fool for Mate. She glares in Balls, front Boxes, and the Ring, A vain, unquiet, glittering, wretched Thing !

40 65

Pride, Pomp, and State, but reach her outward part; 55
She fighs, and is no Dutchess 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 refiftless charms,
Those, Age or Sickness, foon 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 Monthaufier was only chang'd in name; 70 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 th’ Elysian coast, Amid those Lovers, joys his gentle Ghost : Pleas’d, while with smiles his happy lines you view, 75 And finds a fairer Rambouillet in you. The brightest eyes in France inspir'd his Muse; The brightest eyes in Britain now peruse ; And dead, as living, 'tis our Author's pride Still to charm who charm the world beside. 80

* Mademoiselle Paulet.




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