How oft in pleasing tasks we wear the day, How oft review; each finding like a friend Rome's pompous glories rising to our thought! With thee on Raphael's monument I mourn, མཎྜཏ Yet still her charms in breathing paint engage; Her modest cheek shall warm a future age. 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; 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. 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. N these gay thoughts the Loves and Graces shine, IN And all the writer lives in every line: His easy art may happy nature seem, Who without flattery pleas'd the fair and great; Still with esteem no less convers'd than read; And, if it can, at once both please and preach. Few write to those, and none can live to these. Custom, grown blind with age, must be your guide; Or bound in formal, or in real chains: Whole years neglected, for some months ador'd, Nor let false shows, nor empty titles please: The gods, to curse Pamela with her prayers, Gave the gilt coach and dappled Flanders mares, 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 destin'd Hymen's willing victim too; Trust not too much your now resistless charms, Those, age or sickness, soon 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 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 Monthausier 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' Elysian coast, Amid those lovers, joys his gentle ghost: Pleas'd, while with smiles his happy lines you view, The brightest eyes in France inspir'd his muse; And dead, as living, 'tis our author's pride Mademoiselle Paulet. EPISTLE TO THE SAME, On her leaving the Town after the Coronation, 1715. S some fond virgin, whom her mother's care As 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, aud with sighs withdrew; Not that their pleasures caus'd her discontent, She sigh'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: See went from opera, park, assembly, play, To morning-walks, and prayers three hours a-day; To part her time 'twixt reading and bohca, 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; There starve and pray, for that's the way to heaven. Then gives a smacking buss, and cries,-- No words! |