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The most abandon'd prostitutes are they,
Who not to love, but avarice, fall a prey :
Nor aught avails the specious name of wife;
A maid so wedded is-a whore for life.

E'en in the happiest choice, where favouring Has equal love and easy fortune given, [Heaven Think not, the husband gain'd, that all is done; The prize of happiness must still be won: And oft, the careless find it to their cost, The lover in the husband may be lost; The Graces might alone his heart allure; They and the Virtues meeting must secure.

Let e'en your Prudence wear the pleasing dress Of care for Him, and auxious tenderness. From kind concern about his weal or woe, Let each domestic duty seem to flow. The household sceptre if he bids you bear, Make it your pride his servant to appear: Endearing thus the common acts of life, The mistress still shall charm him in the wife; And wrinkled age shall unobserv'd come on, Before his eye perceives one beauty gone: E'en o'er your cold, your ever-sacred urn, His constant flame shall unextinguish'd burn.

Thus I, Belinda, would your charms improve, And form your heart to all the arts of love. The task were harder, to secure my own Against the power of those already known: For well you twist the secret chains that bind With gentle force the captivated mind, Skill'd every soft attraction to employ, Each flattering hope, and each alluring joy ; I own your genius, and from you receive The rules of pleasing, which to you I give.

WRITTEN AT

MR. POPE'S HOUSE AT TWICKENHAM,
WHICH HE HAD LENT TO MRS. GREVILLE,
IN AUGUST, 1735.

Go, Thames, and tell the busy town,
Not all its wealth or pride,

Could tempt me from the charms that crown
Thy rural flowery side.

Thy flowery side, where Pope has plac'd

The Muses' green retreat,

With every smile of Nature grac'd,

With every art complete.

But now, sweet bard, thy heavenly song
Enchants us here no more!
Their darling glory lost too long
Thy once-lov'd shades deplore.

Yet still, for beauteous Greville's sake,
The Muses here remain;
Greville, whose eyes have power to make
A Pope of every swain.

VIRTUE AND FAME.

TO THE COUNTESS OF EGREMONT.

VIRTUE and Fame, the other day,
Happen'd to cross each other's way;
Said Virtue, Hark ye! madam Fame,
Your ladyship is much to blame`;

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Jove bids you always wait on me,
And yet your face I seldom see:

The Paphian queen employs your trumpet;
And bids it praise some handsome strumpet;
Or, thundering through the ranks of war,
Ambition ties you to her car.'

Saith Fame, Dear madam, I protest,
I never find myself so bless'd
As when I humbly wait behind you!
But 'tis so mighty hard to find you!
In such obscure retreats you lurk!
To seek you, is an endless work.'

'Well, (answer'd Virtue) I allow
Your plea. But hear, and mark me now,
I know, (without offence to others)
I know the best of wives and mothers;
Who never pass'd an useless day
In scandal, gossiping, or play:
Whose modest wit, chastis'd by sense,
Is lively cheerful innocence;

Whose heart nor envy knows nor spite,
Whose duty is her sole delight;
Nor rul'd by whim, nor slave to fashion,
Her parents' joy, her husband's passion.'

Fame smil❜d, and answer'd, 'On my life,
This is some country-parson's wife,
Who never saw the court nor town,
Whose face is homely as her gown:
Who banquets upon eggs and bacon-'

'No, madam, no-you're much mistaken→→ I beg you'll let me set you right"Tis one with every beauty bright;

Adorn'd with every polish'd art
That rank or fortune can impart;
"Tis the most celebrated toast
That Britain's spacious isle can boast ;
"Tis princely Petworth's noble dame;
'Tis Egremont-Go, tell it, Fame!'

ADDITION,

EXTEMPORE, BY THE EARL OF HARDWICKE, FAME heard with pleasure-straight replied, First on my roll stands Wyndham's bride; My trumpet oft I've rais'd, to sound Her modest praise the world around'; But notes were wanting-Canst thou find A Muse to sing her face, her mind? Believe me, I can name but one, A friend of yours-'tis Lyttelton,'

LETTER TO THE EARL OF HARDWICKE: OCCASIONED BY THE FOREGOING VERSES.

MY LORD,

A THOUSAND thanks to your Lordship for your addition to my verses. If you can write such extempore, it is well for other poets that you chose to be Lord-Chancellor, rather than a Laureat. They explain to me a vision I had the night before.

Methought I saw before my feet,

With countenance serene and sweet,

LETTER TO EARL HARDWICKE.

The Muse, who in my youthful days
Had oft inspir'd my careless lays.

She smil❜d, and said, ' Once more I see
My fugitive returns to me;

Long had I lost you from my bower,
You scorn'd to own my gentle power;
With me no more your genius sported,
The grave Historic Muse you courted;
Or, rais'd from earth, with straining eyes,
Pursued Urania through the skies;
But now, to my forsaken track,
Fair Egremont has brought you back :
Nor blush, by her and Virtue led,
That soft, that pleasing path, to tread;
For there, beneath to-morrow's ray,
E'en Wisdom's self shall deign to play.
Lo! to my flowery groves and springs
Her favourite son the goddess brings,
The council's and the senate's guide,
Law's oracle, the nation's pride:
He comes, he joys with thee to join,
In singing Wyndham's charms divine:
To thine he adds his nobler lays;
E'en thee, my friend, he deigns to praise.
Enjoy that praise, nor envy Pitt
His fame with burgess or with cit;
For sure one line from such a bard,
Virtue would think her best reward.'

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