LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU

In two large columns on thy motley page, Where Roman wit is strip’d with English rage; Where ribaldry to satire makes pretence; And modern scandal rolls with ancient sense: Whilst on one side we see how Horace thought; And on the other how he never wrote: Who can believe, who view the bad and good, That the dull copyist better understood That Spirit, he pretends to imitate, Than heretofore that Greek he did translate? Thine is just such an image of his pen, As thou thyself art of the sons of men: Where our own species in burlesque we trace, A sign-post likeness of the human race, That is at once resemblance and disgrace. If he has thorns, they all on roses grow; Thine like rude thistles, and mean brambles show, With this exception, that tho’ rank the soil, Weeds as they are they seem produc’d by toil. Satire should, like a polish’d razor keen, Wound with a touch, that’s scarcely felt or seen. Thine is an oyster-knife that hacks and hews; The rage but not the talent to abuse; And is in hate, what love is in the stews. ’Tis the gross lust of hate, that still annoys, Without distinction, as gross love enjoys: Neither to folly, nor to vice confin’d; The object of thy spleen is human kind: It preys on all, who yield or who resist; To thee ’tis provocation to exist.... If none do yet return th’ intended blow, You all your safety to your dullness owe: But whilst that armour thy poor corps defends, ’Twill make thy readers few, as are thy friends; Those, who thy nature loath’d, yet lov’d thy art, Who lik’d thy head, and yet abhorr’d thy heart; Chose thee, to read, but never to converse, And scorn’d in prose, him whom they priz’d in verse; Even they shall now their partial error see, Shall shun thy writings, like thy company, And to thy books shall ope their eyes no more, Than to thy person they wou’d do their door.

Is it to me, this sad lamenting strain? Are heaven’s choicest gifts bestowed in vain? A plenteous fortune, and a beauteous bride, Your love rewarded, gratify’d your pride: Yet leaving her—’tis me that you pursue Without one single charm, but being new. How vile is man! how I detest their ways Of artful falsehood, and designing praise! Tasteless, an easy happiness you slight, Ruin your joy, and mischief your delight, Why should poor pug (the mimic of your kind) Wear a rough chain, and be to box confin’d? Some cup, perhaps, he breaks, or tears a fan While roves unpunish’d the destroyer, man. Not bound by vows, and unrestrain’d by shame, In sport you break the heart, and rend the fame. Not that your art can be successful here, Th’ already plunder’d need no robber fear: Nor sighs, nor charms, nor flatteries can move, Too well secur’d against a second love. Once, and but once, that devil charm’d my mind; To reason deaf, to observation blind; I idly hop’d (what cannot love persuade?) My fondness equal’d, and my love repaid: Slow to distrust, and willing to believe, Long hush’d my doubts, and did myself deceive; But oh! too soon—this tale would ever last; Sleep, sleep my wrongs, and let me think them past. For you, who mourn with counterfeited grief, And ask so boldly like a begging thief, May soon some other nymph inflict the pain, You know so well with cruel art to feign. Though long you sported with Dan Cupid’s dart, You may see eyes, and you may feel a heart. So the brisk wits, who stop the evening coach, Laugh at the fear which follows their approach; With idle mirth, and haughty scorn despise The passenger’s pale cheek and staring eyes: But seiz’d by Justice, find a fright no jest, And all the terror doubled in their breast.

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 know, Pity the madness, and despise the show: Well as I can my tedious part I bear, And wait for my dismission without fear. Seldom I mark mankind’s detested ways, Not hearing censure, nor affecting praise; And, unconcern’d, my future fate I trust To that sole Being, merciful and just.