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Nor Winds, when first your florid Orchard blows,
Shake the light Blossoms from their blasted Boughs!

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This when the various God had urg'd in vain,
He ftrait assum'd his Native Form again;
Such, and so bright an Asped now he bears,
As when thro’ Clouds th' emerging Sun appears,
And thence exerting his refulgent Ray,
Dispels the Darkness and reveals the Day,
Force he prepard, but check'd the raih Design;
For when, appearing in a Form Divine,
The Nymph survey'd him, and beheld the Grace
Of charming Features and a youthful Face,
A sudden; Passion in her Breast did move,
And the warm Maid confess’da mutual Love,

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IN

N these gay Thoughts the Loves and Graces

[thine, And all the Writer lives in ev'ry Line; His easie Art may happy Nature seem, Trifles themselves are Elegant in him. Sure to charm all was his peculiar Fate, Who without Flatt'ry pleas'd the Fair and Great; Still with Esteem no less convers'd than read With Wit well-natur'd and with Books well-bred;

His Heart, his Mistress and his friend did share;
His Time, the Muse, the Witty, and the Fair,
Thus wifely careless, innocently gay,
Chearful, he play'd the Trifle, Life, away,
Till Death scarce felt did o'er his Pleasures creep,
As smiling Infants sport themselves to Sleep:
Ev'n Rival Wits did Voiture's Fate deplore,
And the Gay mouro'd who never pourn'd before;
The trueft Hearts for Voiture heav'd with Sighs;
Voiture was wept by all the brightest Eyes;
The Smilesand Loves had dy'd in Voiture's Death,
But that for ever in his Lines, they breath.

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Let the ftri& Life of graver Mortals be A long, exact, and serious Comedy,

C In ev'ry Scene fome Moral let it teach, And, if it can, at once both Please and Preach:

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Let mine, like Voiture's, a gay Farce appear,
And more Diverting ftin than Regular,
Have Humour, Wir, a native Ease and Graco;
No matter for the Rules of Time and Place.
Criticks in Wit,'or Life, are hard to please,
Few write to thofe, and none can live to thefe.

Too much your Sex is by their Forms confin’d,
Severe to all, but most to Womankind;

[Guide;
Cuftom, grown blind with Age, must be your
Your Pleafure is a Vice, but not your Pride;
By nature yielding, stubborn but for Fame;
Made Sfaves by Honour,and made Fools by Shame.
Marriage may all those petty Tyrants chace,
But sets up One, a greater, in their Place;
Well might you with for Change, by those accurft,
But the last Tyrant ever proves the worft.

Still in Constraint your suff'ring Sex remains,
Or bound in formal, or in real Chains ; : IB
Whole Years neglected for fome Months ador'd,
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, or empty Titles please;
Aim not at Joy, but rest content with Ease,

The Gods, to curse Pamela with her Pray’rs, Gave the gilt Coach and dappled Flanders Mares, The shining Robes, rich Jewels, Beds of State, And to compleat her Bliss, a Fool for Mate. She glares in Balls, Front-boxes, and the Ring, A vain, unquiet, glittring, wretched Thing! Pride,Pomp,and State but reach her outward Part, She sighs, and is no Dutchefs at her Heart.

But,

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