Beauty, frail flower that every season fears, Blooms in thy colours for a thousand years.

Thus Churchill's race shall other hearts surprise, And other beauties envy Worsley's eyes;[71] 60 Each pleasing Blount shall endless smiles bestow, And soft Belinda's blush for ever glow.

Oh, lasting as those colours may they shine, Free as thy stroke, yet faultless as thy line; New graces yearly like thy works display, Soft without weakness, without glaring gay; Led by some rule, that guides, but not constrains; And finish'd more through happiness than pains.

The kindred arts shall in their praise conspire, One dip the pencil, and one string the lyre. 70 Yet should the Graces all thy figures place, And breathe an air divine on every face; Yet should the Muses bid my numbers roll Strong as their charms, and gentle as their soul; With Zeuxis' Helen thy Bridgewater vie, And these be sung till Granville's Myra die: Alas! how little from the grave we claim!

Thou but preserv'st a face, and I a name.

EPISTLE TO MISS BLOUNT,

WITH THE WORKS OF VOITURE.[72]

In these gay thoughts the Loves and Graces shine, And all the writer lives in every line; His easy art may happy nature seem, Trifles themselves are elegant in him.

Sure, to charm all was his peculiar fate, Who without flattery pleased the fair and great; Still with esteem no less conversed than read; With wit well-natured, and with books well-bred: His heart, his mistress, and his friend did share, His time, the Muse, the witty, and the fair. 10 Thus wisely careless, innocently gay, Cheerful he play'd the trifle, Life, away; Till Fate scarce felt his gentle breath suppress'd, As smiling infants sport themselves to rest.

Even rival wits did Voiture's death deplore, And the gay mourn'd who never mourn'd before; The truest hearts for Voiture heaved with sighs, Voiture was wept by all the brightest eyes: The Smiles and Loves had died in Voiture's death, But that for ever in his lines they breathe. 20

Let the strict life of graver mortals be A long, exact, and serious comedy; In every scene some moral let it teach, And if it can, at once both please and preach.

Let mine an innocent gay farce appear, And more diverting still than regular, Have humour, wit, a native ease and grace, Though not too strictly bound to time and place: Critics in wit, or life, are hard to please, Few write to those, and none can live to these. 30

Too much your sex is by their forms confined, Severe to all, but most to womankind; Custom, 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 those petty tyrants chase, But sets up one, a greater, in their place; Well might you wish for change, by those accursed, But the last tyrant ever proves the worst. 40 Still in constraint your suffering sex remains, Or bound in formal, or in real chains: Whole years neglected, for some months adored, 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 shows, or 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, 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, 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 destined Hymen's willing victim too: Trust not too much your now resistless charms, Those, age or sickness, soon or late, disarms: 60 Good-humour only teaches charms to last, Still makes new conquests, and maintains the past; Love, raised on beauty, 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[73] was only changed in name: 70 By this, even now they live, even now they charm, Their wit still sparkling, and their flames still warm.

Now crown'd with myrtle, on the Elysian coast, Amid those lovers, joys his gentle ghost: Pleased, while with smiles his happy lines you view, And finds a fairer Rambouillet in you.

The brightest eyes of France inspired 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 beside.

EPISTLE TO MRS TERESA BLOUNT.

ON HER LEAVING THE TOWN AFTER THE CORONATION.[74]

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, and with sighs withdrew; Not that their pleasures caused her discontent, She sigh'd not that they staid, 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 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 spoon, 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; 20 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 hound 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. 30

In some fair evening, on your elbow laid, You dream of triumphs in the rural shade; In pensive thought recall the fancied scene, See coronations rise on every green; Before you pass the imaginary sights Of lords, and earls, and dukes, and garter'd knights, While the spread fan o'ershades your closing eyes; Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies.

Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls, And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls! 40

So when your slave, at some dear idle time, (Not plagued with headaches, or the want of rhyme) Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew, And 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 do now. 50

TO MRS M. B.[75] ON HER BIRTHDAY.

Oh, be thou blest with all that Heaven can send, Long health, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend: Not with those toys the female world admire, Riches that vex, and vanities that tire.

With added years, if life bring nothing new, But, like a sieve, let every blessing through, Some joy still lost, as each vain year runs o'er, And all we gain, some sad reflection more; Is that a birthday? 'tis alas! too clear 'Tis but the funeral of the former year. 10

Let joy or ease, let affluence or content, And the gay conscience of a life well spent, Calm every thought, inspirit every grace, Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face Let day improve on day, and year on year, Without a pain, a trouble, or a fear; Till death unfelt that tender frame destroy, In some soft dream, or ecstasy of joy, Peaceful sleep out the Sabbath of the tomb, And wake to raptures in a life to come. 20

TO MR THOMAS SOUTHERN,[76] ON HIS BIRTHDAY, 1742.

Resign'd to live, prepared to die, With not one sin, but poetry, This day Tom's fair account has run (Without a blot) to eighty-one.

Kind Boyle, before his poet lays A table,[77] with a cloth of bays; And Ireland, mother of sweet singers, Presents her harp[78] still to his fingers.

The feast, his towering genius marks In yonder wild goose and the larks; 10 The mushrooms show his wit was sudden; And for his judgment, lo, a pudden!

Roast beef, though old, proclaims him stout, And grace, although a bard, devout.

May Tom, whom Heaven sent down to raise The price of prologues[79] and of plays, Be every birthday more a winner, Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner; Walk to his grave without reproach, And scorn a rascal and a coach. 20

VARIATION.

VER. 15. Originally thus in the MS.:--

And oh, since Death must that fair frame destroy, Die, by some sudden ecstasy of joy; In some soft dream may thy mild soul remove, And be thy latest gasp a sigh of love.

TO MR JOHN MOORE,

AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED WORM-POWDER.

1 How much, egregious Moore, are we Deceived by shows and forms!

Whate'er we think, whate'er we see, All humankind are worms.

2 Man is a very worm by birth, Vile reptile, weak and vain!

A while he crawls upon the earth, Then shrinks to earth again.

3 That woman is a worm, we find E'er since our grandame's evil; She first conversed with her own kind, That ancient worm, the Devil.