My glowing bosom throbb'd with thick-heaved
And floods of rapture gush'd into my eyes :
When now repeated (for thy theft was vain,
Each treasured syllable my thoughts retain)
Far other passions rule, and different care,
My joys and grief, my transports and despair.
Why dost thou mock the ties of constant love?
But half its joys the faithless ever prove,
They only taste the pleasures they receive,
When sure the noblest is in those we give.
Acceptance is the heaven which mortals know,
But 'tis the bliss of angels to bestow.
Oh! emulate, my love, that task divine,
Be thou that angel, and that heaven be mine.
Yet, yet relent, yet intercept my fate!
Alas! I rave, and sue for new deceit.
As soon the dead shall from the grave return,
As love extinguish'd with new ardor burn.
Oh! that I dared to act a Roman part,
And stab thy image in this faithful heart,
Where rivetted for life secure you reign,
A cruel inmate, author of my pain :
But coward like irresolute I wait
Time's tardy aid, nor dare to rush on fate;
Perhaps may linger on life's latest stage,
Survive thy cruelties, and fall by age :
No-grief shall swell my sails and speed me o'er
(Despair my pilot) to that quiet shore,
Where I can trust, and thou betray no more.
Might I but once again behold thy charms,
Might I but breathe my last in those dear arms,
On that loved face but fix my closing eye,
Permitted where I might not live to die.
My softened fate I would accuse no more;
But fate has no such happiness in store.
"Tis past, 'tis done-what gleam of hope behind,
When I can ne'er be false, nor thou be kind;
Why then this care-'tis weak-'tis vain--
farewel
At that last word what agonies I feel!
I faint-I die-remember I was true-
'Tis all I ask-eternally adieu !-
To Miss Blount, with the Works of Voiture.
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.
Thus wisely careless, innocently gay,
Cheerful he play'd the trifle life, away;
Till fate scarce felt his gentle breath supprest,
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.
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;
Criticks in wit, or life, are hard to please;
Few write to those, and none can live to these.
Too much your sex are 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 accurst,
But the last tyrant ever proves the worst.
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, nor 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,
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:
Good humour only teaches charms to last,
Still makes new conquests, and maintains the past
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