THOUGH I never got possession,
'Tis a pleasure to adore;
Hope, the wretch's only blessing,
May in time procure me more.
Constant courtship may obtain her,-
Where both wealth and merit fail,
And the lucky minute gain her,-
Fate and fancy must prevail.
At Diana's shrine aloud,
By the bow and by the quiver,
Thrice she bow'd, and thrice she vow'd,
Once to love-and that for ever.
[LADY M. M***'S FAREWEL TO BATH.1
To all you ladies now at Bath,
And eke, ye beaus, to you,
With aking heart, and wat'ry eyes,
I bid my last adieu.
Farewel, ye nymphs, who waters sip,
Hot reeking from the pumps,
While music lends her friendly aid,
To cheer you from the dumps.
Farewel, ye wits, who prating stand,
And criticise the fair;
Yourselves the joke of men of sense,
Who hate a coxcomb's air.
[These lines are not given in previous editions; they are reprinted from the "Gentleman's Magazine," vol. i., 305 (July, 1731).]
Farewel to Deard's, and all her toys,
Which glitter in her shop,
Deluding traps to girls and boys,
The warehouse of the fop.
Lindsays" and Hayes's, both farewel,
Where in the spacious hall,
With bounding steps, and sprightly air,
I've led up many a ball.
Where Somerville, of courteous mien,
Was partner in the dance,
With swimming Haws, and Brownlow blithe,
And Britton, pink of France.
Poor Nash, farewel! may Fortune's smile,
Thy drooping soul revive;
My heart is full, I can no more.—
John, bid the coachman drive.]
EPISTLE TO LORD HERVEY ON THE KING'S BIRTHDAY.
Where I enjoy in contemplative chamber,
Lutes, laurels, seas of milk, and ships of amber.
THROUGH shining crowds you now make
With sideling bow and golden key;
While wrapped in spleen and easy chair,
For all this pomp so small my care,
I scarce remember who are there.
Yet in brocade I can suppose
The potent Knight whose presence goes
At least a yard before his nose:
And majesty with sweeping train,
[Lindsey's Assembly Room. See Goldsmith's "Life of Beau Nash,"
That does so many yards contain,
Superior to her waiting nymphs,
As lobster to attendant shrimps.
I do not ask one word of news,
Which country damsels much amuse.
If a new batch of Lords appears,
After a tour of half six years,
With foreign airs to grace the nation,
The Maids of Honour's admiration;
Whose bright improvements give surprise
To their own lady-mother's eyes:
Improvements, such as colts might show,
Were mares so mad to let them go;
Their limbs perhaps a little stronger,
Their manes and tails grown somewhat longer.
I would not hear of ball-room scuffles,
Nor what new whims adorn the ruffles.
This meek epistle comes to tell,
On Monday I in town shall dwell;
Where, if you please to condescend
In Cavendish-square' to see your friend,
I shall disclose to you alone
Such thoughts as ne'er were thought upon.
BORN to be slaves, our fathers freedom sought,
And with their blood the precious treasure bought;
We their mean offspring our own bondage plot,
And, born to freedom, for our chains we vote.
Mr. Wortley Montagu's town-house was in Cavendish-square, where he resided, at least as early as August, 1732. Lady Mary's letters to him during her long residence in Italy are sometimes addressed to him there.-T.
2 From a copy in Lady Mary's handwriting, with the initials "M. W. M."-T.
WHO ADVISED LADY M. W. MONTAGU TO RETIRE.
You little know the heart that you advise :
I view this various scene with equal eyes;
In crowded courts I find myself alone,
And pay my worship to a nobler throne.
Long since the value of this world I knew ;
Pitied the folly, and despis'd the shew;
Well as I can, my tedious part I bear,
And wait dismissal without pain or fear.
Seldom I mark mankind's detested ways,
Not hearing censure or affecting praise;
And unconcern'd my future fate I trust
To that sole Being, merciful and just.
WRITTEN AT LOVERE, OCTOBER, 1736.1
Ir age and sickness, poverty and pain,
Should each assault me with alternate plagues,
I know mankind is destin'd to complain,
And I submit to torment and fatigues.
The pious farmer, who ne'er misses pray'rs,
With patience suffers unexpected rain;
He blesses Heav'n for what its bounty spares,
And sees, resign'd, a crop of blighted grain.
But, spite of sermons, farmers would blaspheme,
If a star fell to set their thatch on flame.
CONCLUSION OF A LETTER TO A FRIEND. SENT FROM ITALY, 1741.
BUT happy you from the contagion free,
Who, through her veil, can human nature see;
1 This date must be erroneous. Lady Mary was not at Lovere till See antè, p. 160.-T.
Calm you reflect, amid the frantic scene,
On the low views of those mistaken men,
Who lose the short invaluable hour,
Through dirt-pursuing schemes of distant pow'r;
Whose best enjoyments never pay the chase,
But melt like snow within a warm embrace.
Believe me, friend, for such indeed are you,
Dear to my heart, and to my int'rest true;
Too much already have you thrown away,
Too long sustain'd the labour of the day;
Enjoy the remnant of declining light,
Nor wait for rest till overwhelm'd in night.
By present pleasure balance pain you've past,
Forget all systems, and indulge your taste.
WHEREVER Fortune points my destin'd way,
If my capricious stars ordain my stay
In gilded palace, or in rural scene,
While breath shall animate this frail machine,
My heart sincere, which never flatt'ry knew,
Shall consecrate its warmest wish to you.
A monarch, compass'd by a suppliant crowd,
Prompt to obey, and in his praises loud,
Among those thousands who on smiles depend,
Perhaps has no disinterested friend.
WRITTEN AT LOVERE, 1755.
WISDOM, slow product of laborious years,
The only fruit that life's cold winter bears;
Thy sacred seeds in vain in youth we lay,
By the fierce storm of passion torn away.
Should some remain in a rich gen'rous soil,
They long lie hid, and must be rais'd with toil;
Faintly they struggle with inclement skies,
No sooner born than the poor planter dies.
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