The verses addressed to them, convey in general, either counsel or compliment, or at the most playful gallantry. His letters express something beyond these. He began by admiring Theresa; then he wavered: there were misunderstandings, and petulance, and mutual bickerings. His susceptibility exposed him to be continually wounded; he felt deeply and acutely; he was conscious that he could inspire no sentiment corresponding with that which throbbed at his own heart: and some passages in the correspondence cannot be read without a painful pity. At length, upon some mutual offence, his partiality for Theresa was transferred to Martha. In one of his last letters to Theresa, he says, beautifully and feelingly, "We are too apt to resent things too highly, till we come to know, by some great misfortune or other, how much we are born to endure; and as for me, you need not suspect of resentment a soul which can feel nothing but grief." His attachment to Martha increased after his quarrel with Lady Mary W. Montagu, and ended only with his life. "He was never," says Mr. Bowles, "indifferent to female society; and though his good sense prevented him, conscious of so many personal infirmities, from marrying, yet he felt the want of that sort of reciprocal tenderness and confidence in a female, to whom he might freely communicate his thoughts, and on whom, in sickness and infirmity, he could rely. All this Martha Blount became to him; by degrees, she became identified with his existence. She partook of his disappointments, his vexations, and his comforts. Wherever he went, his correspondence with her was never remitted; and when the warmth of gallantry was over, the cherished idea of kindness and regard remained."[128] To Martha Blount is addressed the compliment on her birth-day-- O be thou blest with all that heaven can send,-- Long health, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend! And an epistle sent to her, with the works of Voiture, in which he advises her against marriage, in this elegant and well-known passage,-- Too much your sex are by their 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 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.