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The Gods, to curfe Pamela with her pray'rs," Gave the gilt Coach and dappled Flanders Mares, 50 The fhining robes, rich jewels, beds of ftate, And, to compleat her bliss, a Fool 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 withftand, and you Are deftin'd Hymen's willing Victim too; Truft not too much your now refiftless charms, Thofe, Age or Sicknefs, foon or late difarms: 60 Good humour only teaches charms to laft, Still makes new conquefts, and maintains the paft; Love, rais'd on Beauty, will like that decay, Our hearts may bear its flender chain a day; As flow'ry bands in wantonnefs are worn, A morning's pleasure, and at evening torn; This binds in ties more eafy, yet more strong, The willing heart, and only holds it long.

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Thus Voiture's early care ftill 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 sparkling, and their flames ftill warm.

Now crown'd with Myrtle, on th' Elyfian coaft, Amid thofe Lovers, joys his gentle Ghoft:

* Mademoiselle Paulet.

Pleas'd, while with fmiles his happy lines you view,
And finds a fairer Ramboüillet in you.

The brightest eyes of France infpir'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 befide.

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EPISTLE

To the fame,

On her leaving the Town after the CORONATION.

S fome fond Virgin, whom her mother's care

Α
A Drags from the Town to wholefome Coun-

try air;

Juft when she 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;

Coronation] Of King George the firft, 1715.

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Not that their pleasures caus'd her discontent,

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She figh'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:
She went from Op'ra, Park, Affembly, Play,
To morning-walks, and pray'rs 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, telt ftories to the fquire;
Up to her godly garret after fev'n,

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There ftarve and pray, for that's the way to heav'n. Some Squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack; Whofe game is Whisk, whofe treat a toaft in fack; Who vifits with a Gun, prefents you birds,

25 Then gives a fmacking buss, and cries,---No words! Or with his hound comes hallowing from the ftable, Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table Whose laughs are hearty, tho' his jefts are coarse, And loves you beft of all things---but his horfe. 30 In fome fair ev'ning, on your elbow laid,

You dream of Triumphs in the rural shade;
In penfive thought recall the fancy'd scene,
See Coronations rife on ev'ry green;

Before you pafs th' imaginary fights

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Of Lords, and Earls, and Dukes, and garter'd Knights,

While the spread fan o'ershades your clofing 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! 40
So when your Slave, at fome dear idle time,
(Not plagu'd with head-achs, or the want of rhyme)
Stands in the ftreets, abftracted from the crew,
And while he seems to study, thinks of you;
Just when his fancy points your sprightly eyes, 45
Or fees the blush of foft Parthenia rise,

Gay pats my shoulder, 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. 50

THE

BASSET-TABLE.

AN

ECLOGUE.

CARDELIA. SMILINDA.

CARDELIA.

HE Baffet-Table spread, the Tallier come;
Why Hays SMILINDA in the Dreffing-Room?

Rife, penfive Nymph, the Tallier waits for you:

SMILINDA.

Ah, Madam, fince my SHARPER is untrue, I joyless make my once ador'd Alpeu.

The Baffet-Table.] Only this of all the Town Eclogues was Mr. Pope's; and is here printed from a copy corrected by his own hand. The humour of it lies in this, that the one is in love with the Game, and the other with the Sharper.

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