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Love raised on beauty will like that decay,
Thus Voiture's early care still shone the same,
Now crown'd with myrtle on the’ Elysian coast, Amid those lovers joys his gentle ghost; Pleased while with smiles his happy lines you view, And finds a fairer Rambouillet in you. The brightest eyes of France inspired 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.
TO THE SAME.
HER LEAVING THE TOWN AFTER THE CORONATION.
1715. As some fond virgin, whom her mother's care 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:
| Mademoiselle Paulet.
Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew,
She went to plain work, and to purling brooks,
Some squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack, Whose game is whist, whose treat a toast in sack; Who visits with a gun, présents you birds, Then gives a smacking buss, and cries-no words! Or with his hounds comes hallooing from the stable; 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 some fair evening, on your elbow laid, You dream of triumphs in the rural shade; In pensive thought recall the fancied scene, See coronations rise on every green: Before you pass the’ imaginary sights Of lords, and earls, and dukes, and garter'd knights, While the spread fan o'ershades your closing eyes; Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies.
Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls,
So when your slave, at some dear idle time,
How much, egregious Moore! are we
Deceived by shows and forms ! Whate'er we think, whate'er we see,
All humankind are worms.
Man is a very worm by birth,
Vile reptile, weak, and vain!
Then shrinks to earth again.
That woman is a worm we find,
E’er since our grandam's evil; She first conversed with her own kind, · That ancient worm, the Devil.
The learn’d themselves we book-worms name,
The blockhead is a slow-worm; The nymph whose tail is all on flame,
Is aptly term’d a glow-worm.
The fops are painted butterflies
That flutter for a day:
And in a worm decay.
The flatterer an earwig grows;
Thus worms suit all conditions ; Misers are muck-worms; silk-worms, beaux;
And death-watches, physicians.
That statesmen have the worm, is seen
By all their winding play; Their conscience is a worm within
That gnaws them night and day.
Ah, Moore! thy skill were well employ’d,
And greater gain would rise,
The worm that never dies !
O learned friend of Abchurch Lane,
Who sett'st our entrails free; Vain is thy art, thy powder vain,
Since worms shall eat e'en thee.
Our fate thou only canst adjourn
Some few short years, no more!
TO MRS. M. B.
ON HER BIRTH-DAY.
Let joy or ease, let affluence or content,
TO MR. THOMAS SOUTHERN.