Still in constraint your fuff'ring 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 Ease.
The Gods, to curfe Pamela with her pray❜rs,
Gave the gilt Coach and dappled Flanders Mares, 50
The fhining robes, rich jewels, beds of state,
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 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,
Thofe, Age or Sickness, foon 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 flow'ry bands in wantonnefs are worn,
A morning's pleafure, and at evening torn;
This binds in ties more eafy, yet more ftrong,
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 ftill fparkling, and their flames still warm.
Now crown'd with Myrtle, on th' Elyfian coaft,
Amid thofe Lovers, joys his gentle Ghost :
Pleas'd, while with fimiles his happy lines you view,
And finds a fairer Rambouillet in you.
The brighteft eyes of France infpir'd his Muse;
The brighteft eyes of Britain now peruse;
And dead, as living, 'tis our author's pride
Still to charm those who charm the world befide.
On her leaving the Town after the CORONATION.
S fome fond Virgin, whom her mother's care
Drags from the Town to wholesome Country
Juft when she learns to roll a melting eye,
And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh;
[Coronation] Of King George the first, 1715.
From the dear man unwilling she must sever,
Yet takes one kiss before the 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 Op'ra, Park, Affembly, Play,
To morning walks, and pray'rs three hours a day;
To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea,
To mufe, and fpill 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 feven,
There ftarve and pray, for that's the way to heav'n.
Some Squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack;
Whofe game is Whisk, whofe treat a toaft in fack;
Who vifits with a gun, presents you birds,
Then gives a finacking buss, and cries,-No words!
Or with his hound comes hollowing from the ftable,
Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table;
Whofe laughs are hearty, tho' his jefts are coarse,
And loves you beft of all things-but his horfe.
In fome fair ev❜ning, on your elbow laid,
"You dream of Triumphs in the rural shade;
In penfive thought recall the fancy'd fcene,
See Coronations rife on ev'ry green;
Before you pass 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 vision flies.
Thus vanish fceptres, coronets, and balls,
And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls!
So when your Slave, at fome dear idle time,
(Not plagu'd with head-achs, or the want of rhyme)
Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew,
And while he feeins to study, thinks of
Juft when his fancy points your sprightly eyes,
Or fees the blufh of foft Parthenia rise,
Gay pats my shoulder, 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.
HE Ballet-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 Alpeu.
I saw him ftand behind OMBRELIA's Chair,
And whisper with that foft, deluding air,
And those feign'd fighs which cheat the list'ning Fair.
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