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Nor let false shows, 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,
The shining robes, rich jewels, beds of state,
And, to complete her bliss, a fool formate.
She glares in balls, front boxes, and the ring,
A vain, unquiet, glittering, wretched thing!
Pride, pomp, and state, but reach her outward part;
She sighs, 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. Those, age or sickness, soon or late, disarms: Good-humour only teaches charms to last, Still makes new conquests, and maintains the past; Love rais'd on beanty 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 Monthansier 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 still warm.

Now crown'd with myrtle, on th' Elysian coast, Amid tliose lovers, joys his gentle ghost: Pleas'd, while with smiles his happy lines you view, And finds a fairer Ramboiiillet in yon. The brightest eyes in Prance inspir'd his muse; The brightest eyes in Britain now peruse; And dead, as living, 'tis our anthor's pride Still to charm those who charm the world beside.

Mademoiselle Panlet.


On her leaving the Town after the Coronation, 1715

AS some fond virgin, whom her mother's care
Drags from the town to wholesome country air,
Just when she learns to roll a melting eye,
And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh;
From the dear man unwilling she must sever.
Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever:
Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew,
Saw others happy, aud with sighs withdrew;
Not that their pleasures caus'd her discontent.
She sigh'd, not that they stay'd, but that she went.

She went to plain-work, and to purling brooks,
Old-fash ion'd halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks:
See went from opera, park, assembly, play,
To morning-walks, and prayers three hours a-day;
To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea,
To muse, and spill her solitary tea;
Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the &poon,
Count the slow 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 starve and pray, for that's the way to heaven.

Some 'squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack; Whose game is whist, whose treat a toast in sack: Who visits with a gun, presents you birds,' Then gives a smacking buss, and cries,—' No words.' Or with his hounds comes hallooing from the stable, Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table; Whose laughs are hearty, though his jests are coarse, And loves you best of all things—but his horse.

In some fair evening, on your elbow laid, You dream of trinmphs ia the rural shade;

T» pensive thought recall the fancy'd scene,
See coronations rise on every green;
Before you pass th' imaginary sights
Of lords, and earls, and dnkes, and garter'd knights,
"White the spread fan o'ershades your closing eyes;
Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies.
Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls!
Anfi leave you in lone woods, or empty walls!

So when your slave, at some dear idle time,
Not plagn'd with head-aches, or the want of rhyme,
Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew,
A nd while he seems to study, thinks of you;
Just when his fancy paints your sprightly eyes,
Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise,
Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite,
Streets, chairs, and coxcombs, rush upon my sight;
Vex'd to be still in town, I knit my brow,
Look sour, and hum a tune, as you may now.




THE basset-table spread, the tallier come;
Why stays Smilinda in the dressing-room?
Rise, pensive nymph; the tallier waits for yon.

Ah, madam, since my Sharper is untrue,
I joyless make my once ador'd alpiew.

I saw him stand behind Ombrelis's chair.
And whisper with that soft deluding air,
And those feign'd sighs which cheat the listen-
ing fair.

Is this the cause of your romantic strains?
A mightier grief my heavy heart sustains.
As you by love, so I by fortune cross'd;
One, one bad deal, three septlevas have lost.


Is that the grief, which you compare with mine? With ease, the smiles of fortune I resign? Would all my gold in one bad deal were gone, Were lovely Sharper mine, and mine alone

A lover lost, is but a common care;
And prudent nymphs against that change prepare:
Theknave of clubs thrice lost; oh! who could guess
This fatal stroke, this unforeseen distress?

See Betty Lovet! very a, propos,
She all the cares of love and play does know:
Dear Betty shall the important point decide;
Betty, who oft the pain of each has try'd:
Impartial, she shall say who suffers most,
By cards, ill-usage, or by lovers lost.


Tell, tell your griefs; attentive will I stay,
Though time is precious, and I want some tea.

Behold this equipage, by Mathers wrought,
With fifty guineas (a great pennVorth) boaght.
See, on the tooth-pick Mars and Cupid strive;
And both the struggling figures seem alive.
Upon the bottom shines the queen's bright face:
A myrtle foliage round the thimble-case.
Jove, Jove himself does on the scissars shine;
The metal, and the workmanship, divine I

This snuff-boxr~once the pledge of Sharper's love,
When rival beanties for the present strove?
At Corticelli's he the raffle won;
Then first his passion was in public shown:
Hazardia blush'd, and turn'd her head aside,
A rival's envy (all in vain) to hide.
This snuff-box,—on the hinge see brilliants shine!
This snuff-box will I stake; the priae is mine.

Alas! far lesser losses than I bear,
Have made a soldier sigh, a lover swear.
And, oh! what makes the disappointment hard,
'Xwas my own lord that drew the fatal card.
In complaisance I took the queen he gave;
Though my own secret wish was for the knave.
The knave won sonica, which I had chose;
And the next pull, my septleva I lose.

'But, ah! what aggravates the killing smart,
The cruel thought, that stabs me to the heart;
This curs'd Ombrelia, this undoing fair,
By whose vile arts this heavy grief 1 bear;
She, at whose name I shed these spiteful tears,
She owes to me the very charms she wears.
An awkward thing when first she came to town:
Her shape unfashion'd, and her face unknown:
She was my friend; I tanght her first to spread
Upon her sallow cheeks enliv'ning red:

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