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pope.

TO MISS BLOUNT,

with the Works of VOITURE; 1730.

In these gay thoughts the Loves and Graces

í hine,
And all the writer lives in ev'ry line;
His easy art may happy nature seem;
Trifles themselves are elegant in hiin.
Sure to charm all was his peculiar fate,
Who without Aatt'ry pleas'd the fair and great;
Still with esteem no less convers’d than read;
With wit well-natur'd, and with books well-bred:
His heart his mistress and his friend did 1 hare,
His time the Mufe, the witty, and the fair.
Thus wisely careless, innocently gay,
Cheerful he play'd the trifle life away,
Till Fate scarce felt bis gentle breath fupprest,
As smiling infants sport themselves to reft.
Ev'n rival wits did Voiture's death deplore,
And the

gay

mourn'd, who never mourn'd before,
The truest hearts for Voiture breath'd with sighs;
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 strict live of graver morals 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, and native ease and grace,
Tho' not too strictly bound to time and place.
Critics in wit or life are hard to pleale;
Few write to those, and none can live to these.

Too

pope.

Too much your fex is by the forms.confin'd,
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 1 hame.
Marriage may all those petty tyrants chase,
But sets up one, a greater, in their place:
Well might you wilh for change by those accurft;
But the last tyrant ever proves the worst.
Still in constraint your suff’ring sex remains,
Or bound in formal or in real chains :
Whole years neglected for some months ador'a,
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 Thews nor empty titles please:
Aim not at joy, but reft content with ease.

The gods, to curse Pamela with her pray’rs,
Gave the gilt coach and dappled Flanders mares,
The shining robes, rich jewels, beds of state,
And, to complete her bless, a tool 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;
She fighs, and is no duchess at her heart.

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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, 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 slender chain a day,
As flow'ry bands in wantonness are worn,
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

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pope.

Thus Voiture's early care *) ftill fhone the

fame,
And Montausier was only changed 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 ghoft;
Pleas'd while with smilès his happy lines you view,
And finds a fairer Rambouillet in

you.
The brightest eyes of 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,

Gay.

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S. B. I. S. 33. 414. man findet živolf poetische Episteln unter seinen vermischten Gedichten, die stellenweise viel Verdienst haben, ob sie gleich im Ganzen etwas zu kalt und einförmig find. Folgende ist eine der beften.

TO BERNARD LINTOTT.

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On a Miscellany of Poems. Ipfa varietate tentamus efficere, vt alia aliis, quaedam forraffe omnibus placeant.

PLIN. Epift.

As when some skilful cook, to please each

guest,
Would in one mixture comprehend a Feast,
With due proportion and judicious care
He fills his dish with diff'rent sorts of fare,
Fif hes and fowls deliciously unite,
To feast at once the taste, the smell, and fight:

So, Bernard! must a Mifcellany be
Compounded of all kinds of poetry;
The Muse's olio, which all tastes may fit,
And treat each reader with his darling wit.

Wouldst thou for Miscellanies raise thy fame,
And bravely rival Jacob's mighty name,
Let all the Mules in the piece conspire;
The lyric Bard must strike th’ harmonious lyre;
Heroic strains must here and there be found,
And nervous sense be sung in lofty sound:
Let Elegy in moving numbers flow,
And fill Tome pages with melodious woe;
Let not your am'rous fongs too num'rous prove,
Nor glut thy reader with abundant love:

Gay.

Satire muft interfere, whose pointed rage
May lash the madness of a vicious age;
Satire, the Muse that never fails to hit,
For if there's scandal, to be sure there's wit.
Tire not our patience with Pindaric lays,
Those swell the piece, but very rarely please;
Let shortbreath'd Epigram its force confine,
And strike at follies in a single line :
Translations should throughout the work be sown,
And Homer's goldlike Mufe be made our own:
Horace in useful numbers should be sung,
And Virgil's thoughts adorn the British tongue:
Let Ovid tell Corinna's hard disdain,
And at her door in melting notes complain:
His tender accents pitying virgins move,
And charm the lift’ning ear with tales of love.
Let ev'ry classic in the volume f bine,
And each contribute to the great design:
Thro' various subjects let the reader range,
And raise his fancy with a grateful change;
Variety's the source of joy below,
From whence still fresh-revolving pleasures flow.
In books and love the mind one end pursues,
And only change th' expiring flame renews.

1

Where Buckingham will condescend to give,
That honour'd piece to distant times must live:
When noble Sheffield strikes the trembling strings,
The little Loves rejoice, and clap their wings:
Anacreon lives, they cry: th' harmonious Iwainn
Retunes the lyre, and tries his wonted strain;
'Tis he! Our lost Anacreon lives again.
But when th' illustrious poet soars above
The sportive revels of the God of Love,
Like Maro's Muse he takes a loftier Aight,
And tow'rs beyond the wond'ring Cupid's sight.

If thou wouldnt have thy volume stand the

teft,
And of all others be reputed beft,

Let

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