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: 60 Good-humour only teaches charms to last, Still makes new conquests, and maintains the past; Love, raised on beauty, will like that decay, Our hearts may bear its slender chain a day; As flowery bands in wantonness are worn, A morning's pleasure, and at evening torn; This binds in ties more easy, yet more strong, The willing heart, and only holds it long. Thus Voiture's early care still shone the same, And Monthansier[73] was only changed in name: 70 By this, even now they live, even now they charm, Their wit still sparkling, and their flames still warm. 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. * * * * * EPISTLE TO MRS TERESA BLOUNT. ON HER LEAVING THE TOWN AFTER THE CORONATION.[74] 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: Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew, Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew; Not that their pleasures caused her discontent, She sigh'd not that they staid, but that she went. 10 She went to plain-work, and to purling brooks, Old-fashion'd halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks: She went from opera, park, assembly, play, To morning-walks, and prayers three hours a-day: To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea, To muse, and spill her solitary tea; Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon, Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon; Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire, Hum half a tune, tell stories to the 'squire; 20 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; Whose game is whist, whose treat, a toast in sack; Who visits with a gun, presents you birds, Then gives a smacking buss, and cries--No words! Or with his hound 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. 30