The Works of the English Poets: Pope

EPISTLE

TO MISS BLOUNT,

WITH THE WORKS OF VOITURE.

N these gay thoughts the Loves and Graces shine,
And all the Writer lives in every line;

His cafy Art may happy Nature seem,
Trifles themselves are elegant in him.
Sure to charm all was his peculiar fate,

Who without flattery 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 Mufe, the witty and the fair.
Thus wifely carelefs, innocently gay,
Chearful he play'd the trifle, Life, away;
Till fate scarce felt his gentle breath fuppreft,
As fmiling Infants fport themselves to rest.
Ev'n rival Wits did Voiture's death deplore,

And the gay mourn'd who never mourn'd before ;
The truest hearts for Voiture heav'd with fighs,
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.

Let the ftrict life of graver mortals be

A long, exact, and ferious Comedy;

every 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 still than regular,

Have Humour, Wit, a native Ease and Grace,
Though not too ftrictly 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 are 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 those petty Tyrants chace,

But fets up one, a greater in their place:

Well might you wifh for change by those accurft,
But the laft Tyrant ever proves the worst.

Still in constraint your fuffering 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 prayers,
Gave the gilt Coach and dappled Flanders Mares,
The fhining robes, rich jewels, beds of ftate,
And, to complete her blifs, 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; 55
She fighs, and is no Dutchefs 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 Sicknefs, foon or late difarms:
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 flowery bands in wantonness are worn,
A morning's pleasure, and at evening torn;
This binds in ties more eafy, yet more ftrong,
The willing heart, and only holds it long.

Thus * Voiture's early care still fhone the fame,
And Monthaufier was only chang'd in name;

By this, ev'n now they live, ev'n now they charm, Their Wit ftill fparkling, and their flames still warm.

Now crown'd with Myrtle, on th' Elysian coaft,

Amid thofe Lovers, joys his gentle Ghost:

Pleas'd, while with smiles his happy lines you view, 75 And finds a fairer Rambouillet in you.

The brightest eyes in France inspir'd his Muse;

The brightest eyes in Britain now peruse;

And dead, as living, 'tis our Author's pride
Still to charm those who charm the world befide.

* Mademoiselle Paulet.

T LE

E PIST

TO THE SAME,

On her leaving the Town after the Coronation, 1715.

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,

She figh'd, not that they ftay'd, but that she went. ΤΟ
She went to plain-work, and to purling brooks,
Old-fashion'd halls, dull Aunts, and croaking rooks:
She went from Opera, Park, Affembly, Play,
To morning-walks, and prayers 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 stories to the 'Squire;
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;
Whofe game is Whift, whose treat a toast in fack:

Who

Who vifits with a gun, prefents you birds,
Then gives a finacking buss, and cries,—No words!
Or with his hounds comes hallooing from the ftable,
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.
In fome fair evening, on your elbow laid,
You dream of Triumphs in the rural shade i
In penfive thought recall the fancy'd scene,
See Coronations rife on every green;

Before you pafs th' imaginary fights

Of Lords, and Earls, and Dukes, and garter'd Knights,
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 flave, at fome dear idle time,
(Not plague'd with head-achs, or the want of rhyme)
Stands in the streets, abftracted from the crew,
And while he feems to ftudy, thinks of you.
Just when his fancy points your sprightly eyes,
Or fees the blush of foft Parthenia rife,

Gay pats my fhoulder, and you vanish quite,
Streets, Chairs, and Coxcombs, rush upon my fight;
Vex'd to be ftill in town, I knit my brow,

Look four, and hum a Tune, as you may now.

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