EPISTLE

To Mifs BLOUNT.

With the WORKS of VOITURE.

N thefe gay thoughts the Loves and Grace

IN

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And all the Writer lives in ev'ry line; His eafy Art may happy Nature seem, Trifles themselves are elegant in him. Sure to charm all was his peculiar fate, Who without flatt'ry 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 fhare, His time, the Muse, the witty, and the fair. Thus wifely careless, innocently gay, Chearful he play'd the trifle, Life, away; 'Till fate scarce felt his gentle breath supprest, As fmiling Infants fport themselves to rest. Ev'n rival Wits did Voiture's death deplore, And the gay mourn'd who never mourn'd before; The trueft hearts for Voiture heav'd with fighs, Voiture was wept by all the brightest Eyes: The Smiles and Loves had dy'd 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 ev'ry scene fome Moral let it teach,
And, if it can, at once both please and preach.

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Let mine, an innocent gay farce appear,

And more diverting still than regular,

Have Humour, Wit, a native Eafe and Grace,
Tho' not too strictly bound to Time and Place:
Critics in Wit, or Life, are hard to please,

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Few write to those, and none can live to these. 30
Too much your Sex is by their forms confin'd,
Severe to all, but moft to Womankind;
Custom, grown blind with Age, must be your guide;
Your pleasure is a vice, but not your pride;
By Nature yielding, ftubborn but for fame;
Made Slaves by honour, and made Fools by fhame.
Marriage may all those petty Tyrants chase,
But fets up one, a greater in their place;

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Well might you wifh for change by those accurft,
But the laft Tyrant ever proves the worst.
Still in conftraint 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, or empty Titles please:
Aim not at Joy, but reft content with Ease.

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The Gods, to curse Pamela with her pray'rs,
Gave the gilt Coach and dappled Flanders Mares,
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.

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But,

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But, Madam, if the fates withstand, and you Are deftin'd Hymen's willing Victim too; Truft not too much your now refiftless charms, Thofe, Age or Sickness, foon or late difarms: Good humour only teaches charms to laft, 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 pleasure, and at evening torn; This binds in ties more eafy, yet more ftrong, The willing heart, and only holds it long.

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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 ftill fparkling, 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 fmiles 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 perufe ;
And dead, as living, 'tis our Author's pride
Still to charm thofe who charm the world befide.

* Mademoiselle Paulet. P.

EPISTLE

To the fame,

On her leaving the Town after the CORO

NATION.

S fome fond Virgin, whom her mother's care

A Drags from the Town to wholefome Coun

try air,

Juft when she learns to roll a melting eye,
And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh;
From the dear man unwilling the muft fever,
Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever:
Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew,
Saw others happy, and with fighs withdrew;
Not that their pleafures caus'd her discontent,
She figh'd not that they ftay'd, but that she went. 10
She went to plain-work, and to purling brooks,
"Old-fashion'd halls, dull Aunts, and croaking rooks:
She went from Op'ra, Park, Assembly, 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 ftories to the fquire;

Coronation.] Of King George the first, 1715.

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P.

Up

Up to her godly garret after sev'n,

There starve and pray, for that's the way to heav'n.
Some Squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack;
Whose game is Whisk, whose treat a toast in sack;
Who visits with a Gun, presents you birds, 25
Then gives a smacking bufs, and cries,-No words!
Or with his hound comes hallowing from the stable,
Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table;
Whose laughs are hearty, tho' his jests are coarse,
And loves you beft of all things-but his horfe. 30
In fome fair ev'ning, on your elbow laid,

You dream of Triumphs in the rural shade;
In penfive thought recall the fancy'd scene,
See Coronations rife on ev'ry green;

Before you pass th' imaginary fights

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Of Lords, and Earls, and Dukes, and garter'd Knights,→

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While the spread fan o'erfhades your closing eyes;
Then give one flirt and all the vifion 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, abftracted from the crew,
And while he seems to ftudy, thinks of you;
Juft when his fancy points your sprightly eyes, 45
Or fees the blush of foft Parthenia rife,

Gay pats my fhoulder, 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. 50. THE