Thence Beauty, waking all her forms, supplies
An Angel's sweetness, or Bridgewater's eyes.
Mufe! at that Name thy facred forrows shed,
Those tears eternal, that embalm the dead:
Call round her Tomb each object of defire,
Each purer frame inform'd with purer fire:
Bid her be all that chears or foftens life,
The tender fifter, daughter, friend, and wife:
Bid her be all that makes mankind adore;
Then view this Marble, and be vain no more!
Yet still her charms in breathing paint engage; 55
Her modest cheek fhall warm a future age.
Beauty, frail flow'r that ev'ry feason fears,
Blooms in thy colours for a thousand years.
Thus Churchill's race fhall other hearts furprise,
And other Beauties envy Worfley's eyes;
Each pleafing Blount fhall endless fmiles beflow,
And foft Belinda's blush for ever glow.
Oh lafting as thofe Colours may they shine,
Free as thy ftroke, yet faultlefs as thy line;
New graces yearly like thy works display,
Soft without weakness, without glaring gay;
Led by fome rule, that guides, but not constrains;
And finish'd more thro' happiness than pains.
The kindred Arts fhall in their praise conspire,
One dip the pencil, and one string the lyre.
Yet fhould the Graces all thy figures place,
And breathe an air divine on ev'ry face;
Yet fhould the Muses bid my numbers roll
Strong as their charms, and gentle as their foul;
With Zeuxis' Helen thy Bridgewater vie,
And these be fung 'till Granville's Myra die :
Alas! how little from the grave we claim !
Thou but preferv'ft a Face, and I a Name.
With the WORKS of VOITURE.
IN thefe gay thoughts the Loves and Graces shine,
And all the Writer lives in ev'ry line;
His easy Art may happy Nature seem,
Trifles themfelves are elegant in him.
Sure to charm all was his peculiar fate,
Who without flatt'ry pleas'd the fair and great;
Still with efteem no lefs convers'd than read;
With wit well-natur'd, and with books well-bred :
His heart, his mistress and his friend did share,
His time, the Muse, the witty and the fair.
Thus wifely careless, innocently gay,
Chearful he play'd the trifle, Life, away;
'Till Fate fcarce felt his gentle breath fuppreft,
As fmiling Infants fport themselves to reft.
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 ftrict life of graver mortals be
A long, exact, and ferious Comedy;
In ev'ry fcene fome Moral let it teach,
And, if it can, at once both please and preach.
Let mine, an innocent gay farce appear,
And more diverting ftill 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,
Few write to thofe, and none can live to these.
Too much your Sex is by their forms confin'd,
Severe to all, but most to Womankind;
Cuftom, grown blind with Age, must be your guide;
Your pleasure is a vice, but not your pride;
By nature yielding, stubborn but for fame;
Made Slaves by Honour, and made fools by Shame. Marriage may all thofe petty Tyrants chase,
But fets up one, a greater in his place :
Well might you wish for change by those accurst,
But the last Tyrant ever proves the worst.
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 Eafe.
The Gods, to curfe Pamela with her pray❜rs, Gave the gilt Coach and dappled Flanders Mares, 50 The shining robes, rich jewels, beds of state, And, to complete her bliss, 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; 55 She fighs, and is no Duchess at her heart.
But, Madam, if the Fates withstand, and you
Are deftin'd Hymen's willing Victim too;
Trust not too much your now refiftless charms,
Thofe, Age or Sickness foon or late disarms:
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 wantonnefs are worn,
A morning's pleasure, and at ev'ning 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 same,
And Monthaufier 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' Elyfian coaft,
Amid thofe Lovers, joys his gentle Ghost:
Pleas'd, while with fmiles his happy lines you
And finds a fairer Rambouillet in you.
The brightest eyes in France inspir'd his Muse;
The brightest 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.
AS fome 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 fpark, yet think no danger nigh;
From the dear man unwilling she must sever,
Yet takes one kifs before fhe 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 staid, 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 ftories to the 'Squire;
Up to her godly garret after seven,
There ftarve and pray, for that's the way to heav'n.
Coronation Of King George the First, 1715.
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