The trueft hearts for Voiture heav'd with fighs, Let the ftrict life of graver mortals be And more diverting ftill than regular, 20 25 Have Humour, Wit, a native Eafe and Grace, Your pleasure is a vice, but not your pride; 40 Still in constraint your fuff'ring Sex remains, 45 The Gods, to curfe Pamela with her pray'rs, Gave the gilt Coach and dappled Flanders Mares, The shining robes, rich jewels, beds of ftate, 51 And, to compleat her blifs, a Fool for Mate. She glares in Balls, front Boxes, and the Ring, A vain, unquiet, glitt'ring, wretched Thing! Pride, Pomp, and State but reach her outward part; She fighs, and is no Duchefs at her heart. 56 But, Madam, if the fates withstand, and you Are destin'd Hymen's willing Victim too; Trust not too much your now refiftless charms, Thofe, Age or Sickness, foon or late, difarms: 60 Good-humour only teaches charms to laft, Still makes new conquefts, and maintains the paft; Love, rais'd on Beauty, will like that decay, Our hearts may bear its flender chain a day; As flow'ry bands in wantonnefs are worn, 65 Thus *Voiture's early care ftill fhone the fame, 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 coaft, Amid thofe Lovers, joys his gentle Ghost: Pleas'd, while with fmiles his happy lines you view, And finds a fairer Rambouillet in you. 76 The brightest eyes of France infpir'd his Muse; And dead, as living, 'tis our Author's pride *Mademoiselle Paulet. P. Drags from the Town to wholesome Country air, rooks: She went from Op'ra, Park, Affembly, Play, NOTES. Coronation.] Of King George the first, 1715. P. To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea, Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon, 15 Count the flow clock, and dine exact at noon; There ftarve and pray, for that's the way to heav'n. Some Squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack; Whofe game is Whisk, whose treat a toast in sack; Who vifits with a Gun, prefents you birds, 25 Then gives a fmacking bufs, and cries,--No words! Or with his hound comes hallowing from the stable, Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table; Whofe laughs are hearty, tho' his jests are coarse, And loves you beft of all things-but his horse. 30 In fome fair ev'ning, on your elbow laid, You dream of Triumphs in the rural shade; Before you pass th' imaginary fights 35 Of Lords, and Earls, and Dukes, and garter'd Knights, |