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The shining robes, rich jewels, beds of state,
And, to complete her bliss, a fool forimate.
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 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; 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 slender chain a day,
As flow'ry bands in wantonness are worn, 65
A morning's pleasure, and at ev'ning 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 Montháusier was only chang'd in name : 70 By this ev'n now they live, ev'n now they charm, Their wit still sparkling, and their flames still warm.

Now crowni'd with myrtle on th' Elysian coast, Amid those lovers, joys his gentle ghost; Pleas'd while with smiles his happy lines you view, And finds a fairer Rombouillet in you.

76 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 beside.

* Mademoiselle Paulet.

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To the same, on ber leaving the Town after the Corona ion,

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, 5
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 caus’d her discontent;
She sigh'd not that they stay'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 opera, park, assembly, play,
To morning walks, and pray’rs, three hours a-day;
To part her time, 'twixt reading and bohea, 15
To muse, and spill her solitary tea,
Or o'er cold coffee trifle with a 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;
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 Whist, whose treat a toast in sack;
Who visits with a gun, presents you birds, 25
Then gives a smacking buss, and cries---10 words !


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Or with his hounds 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 best of all things---but his horse. 30

In some fair ev'ning, on your elbow laid,
You dream of triumphs in the rural shade;
In pensive thought recall the fancy'd scene,
See corronations rise on ev'ry green:
Before you pass th' 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 plagu'd with headachs 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 points your sprightly eyes, 45 Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise, Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite, Streets, chairs, and coxcombs, rush upon my sight: Vext to be still in Town, I knit my brow, Look sour, and hum a tune, as you may now. 50


To Mr. John Moore, Quibor of the celebrated worm

powder. How much, egregious Moore ! are we

Deceiv'd by shews and forms!

Whate'er we think, whate’er we see,

All human kind are worms.


Man is a very worm by birth,

Vile reptile, weak, and vain!
A while he crawls upon the earth,

Then shrinks to earth again.



That woman is a worm we find,

E’er since our grandame's evil;
She first convers’d with her own kind,

That ancient worm the devil.
The learn'd themselves we bookworms name,

The blockhead is a slow-worm;
The nymph whose tail is all on flame,

Is aptly term'd a Glow-worm.
The fops are painted butterflies,
::That fúiter for a day;
First from a worm they take their rise,

And in a worin decay.
The flatterer’an ear-wig grows:

Thus worins suit all conditions;
Misers are muck-worms, silk-worms beaus,

And death-watches physicians.



That statesmen have the worm, is seen

By all their winding play:
Their conscience is a worm within

That gnaws them night and day.


Ah, Moore! thy skill were well employ'd,
And greater gain would rise,

30 If thou couldst make the courtier void,

The worm that never dies !
O learned friend of Abchurch-lane,

Who sett'st our entrails free;
Vain is thy art, thy powder vain,

35 Since worms shall eat ev'n thee. Our fate thou only canst adjourn

Some few short years, no more!
Ev'n Button's wits to worms shall turn,
Who maggots were before.


To Mrs. M. B. on her birth-day. Ou! be thou bless'd with all that Heav'n 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 ev'ry blessing ihro', Some joys still lost, as each vain year runs o'er, And all we gain some sad reflection more : Is that a birth-day? 'tis, alas! too clear, 'Tis but the fun'ral of the former year.

Let joy or ease, let affluence or content, And the gay conscience of a life well spent, Calm ev'ry thought, inspirit ev'ry grace, Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face.

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