Must Lady Jenny frisk about,
And visit with her cousins?
At balls must she make all the rout,
And bring home hearts by dozens?
What has she better, pray, than I?
What hidden charms to boast,
That all mankind for her should die,
Whilst I am scarce a toast?
Dearest mamma, for once let me,
Unchain'd, my fortune try;
I'll have my Earl as well as she,
Or know the reason why.
I'll soon with Jenny's pride quit score,
Make all her lovers fall:
They'll grieve I was not loosed before :
She, I was loosed at all!"
Fondness prevail'd,-mamma gave way:
Kitty, at heart's desire,
Obtain' the chariot for a day,
And set the world on fire.
FALSE tho' she be to me and love
I'll ne'er pursue revenge;
For still the charmer I approve,
Tho' I deplore her change.
In hours of bliss we oft have met,
They could not always last;
And tho' the present I regret,
I'm grateful for the past.
HER RIGHT NAME.
As Nancy at her toilet sat,
Admiring this and blaming that;
"Tell me," she said; "but tell me true;
The nymph who could your heart subdue.
What sort of charms does she possess?"
"Absolve me, Fair One: I'll confess
With pleasure," I replied. "Her hair,
In ringlets rather dark than fair,
Does down her ivory bosom roll,
And, hiding half, adorns the whole.
In her high forehead's fair half-round
Love sits in open triumph crown'd:
He in the dimple of her chin,
In private state, by friends is seen.
Her eyes are neither black, nor grey;
Nor fierce, nor feeble is their ray;
Their dubious lustre seems to show
Something that speaks nor Yes, nor No.
Her lips no living bard, I weet,
May say, how red, how round, how sweet.
Old Homer only could indite
Their vagrant grace and soft delight:
They stand recorded in his book,
When Helen smiled, and Hebe spoke-"
The gipsy, turning to her glass,
Too plainly show'd she knew the face: "And which am I most like," she said, "Your Chloe, or your nut-brown maid?" Matthew Prior.
HIS EXCUSE FOR LOVING.
LET it not your wonder move,
Less your laughter, that I love.
Tho' I now write fifty years,
I have had, and have my peers;
Poets, tho' divine, are men :
Some have loved as old again.
And it is not always face,
Clothes, or fortune, gives the grace;
Or the feature, or the youth:
But the language, and the truth,
With the ardour, and the passion,
Give the lover weight and fashion.
If you then will read the story,
First, prepare you to be sorry,
That you never knew till now,
Either whom to love or how :
But be glad, as soon with me,
When you know that this is she,
Of whose beauty it was sung,
"She shall make the old man young,"
Keep the middle age at stay,
And let nothing high decay,
Till she be the reason, why,
All the world for love may die.
THE pride of every grove I chose,
The violet sweet, and lily fair,
The dappled pink, and blushing rose,
To deck my charming Chloe's hair.
At morn the nymph vouchsafed to place
Upon her brow the various wreath;
The flowers less blooming than her face,
The scent less fragrant than her breath.
The flowers she wore along the day;
And every nymph and shepherd said, That in her hair they looked more gay, Than glowing in their native bed.
Undrest at evening, when she found Their odours lost, their colours past; She changed her look, and on the ground Her garland and her eye she cast.
That eye dropt sense distinct and clear,
As any muse's tongue could speak;
When from its lid a pearly tear
Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek.
Dissembling what I knew too well,
"My love, my life," said I, "explain
This change of humour: pry'thee tell :
That falling tear-what does it mean?"
She sigh'd: she smiled: and to the flowers
Pointing, the lovely moralist said:
"See! friend, in some few fleeting hours,
See yonder, what a change is made.
"Ah me, the blooming pride of May,
And that of Beauty are but one;
At morn both flourish bright and gay,
Both fade at evening, pale, and gone.
"At morn poor Stella danced and sung;
The amorous youth around her bow'd;
At night her fatal knell was rung;
I saw, and kissed her in her shroud.
"Such as she is, who died to-day;
Such I, alas! may be to-morrow:
Go, Damon, bid thy muse display
The justice of thy Chloe's sorrow."
AT length, by so much importunity press'd,
Take, Congreve, at once the inside of my breast.
The stupid indifference so often you blame,
Is not owing to nature, to fear, or to shame;
I am not as cold as a virgin in lead,
Nor is Sunday's sermon so strong in my head;
I know but too well how old Time flies along,
That we live but few years, and yet fewer are young.
But I hate to be cheated, and never will buy
Long years of repentance for moments of joy.
O! was there a man-but where shall I find
Good sense and good nature so equally join'd ?—
Would value his pleasures, contribute to mine;
Not meanly would boast, and not grossly design;
Not over severe, yet not stupidly vain,
For I would have the power, but not give the pain.
No pedant, yet learned; no rakey-hell gay,
Or, laughing, because he has nothing to say;
To all my whole sex obliging and free,
Yet never be loving to any but me;
In public preserve the decorum that's just,
And show in his eye he is true to his trust;
Then rarely approach, and respectfully bow,
But not fulsomely forward, or foppishly low.
But when the long hours of public are past,
And we meet with champagne and a chicken at last,
May every fond pleasure the moment endear;
Be banish'd afar both discretion and fear!
Forgetting or scorning the aim of the crowd,
He may cease to be formal, and I to be proud,
Till, lost in the joy, we confess that we live,
And he may be rude, and yet I may forgive.
And that my delight may be solidly fix'd,
Let the friend and the lover be handsomely mix'd,
In whose tender bosom my soul may confide,
Whose kindness can soothe me, whose counsel can guide
For such a dear lover as here I describe,
No danger should fright me, no millions should bribe;
But till this astonishing creature I know,
As I long have lived chaste, I will keep myself so.
I never will share with the wanton coquet,
Or be caught by a vain affectation of wit,
The toasters and songsters may try all their art,
But never shall enter the pass of my heart.
I loathe the mere rake, the drest fopling despise:
Before such pursuers the chaste virgin flies:
And as Ovid so sweetly in parable told,
We harden like trees, and like rivers grow cold.
Lady Mary W. Montagu.
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