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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 false Shews, nor empty Titles pleafe:
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,
The shining robes, rich jewels, beds of state, 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 deftin'd Hymen's willing Victim too; Truft not too much your now refiftless charms, Thofe, Age or Sickness, foon or late difarms: 60 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 flender chain a day;
As flow'ry bands in wantonness are worn,
A morning's pleasure, and at evening torn;
This binds in ties more eafy, yet more strong,
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: 70 By this, ev'n now they live, ev'n now they charm, Their Wit ftill fparkling, and their flames ftill
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 brightest 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 thofe who charm the world befide.
To the fame,
On her leaving the Town after the CORONATION.
S fome fond Virgin, whom her mother's care Drags from the Town to wholesome Country air,
Juft when the learns to roll a melting eye,
And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh;
From the dear man unwilling she must fever,
Yet takes one kifs 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, 9
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;
Coronation Of King Georg: the firft, 1715. P.
To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea, 15
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 fquire;
Up to her godly garret after fev'n,
There starve and pray, for that's the
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 vifits with a Gun, prefents you birds,
Then gives a finacking 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 jefts are coarse,
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 pafs th' imaginary fights
Of Lords, and Earls, and Dukes, and garter'd
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;
Just when his fancy points your sprightly eyes, 45
Or fees the blush of foft Parthenia rife,
Gay pats my shoulder, and 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