Joy lives not here, to happier seats it flies, To sigh unheard in to the passing winds? TO LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU. IN beauty, or wit, No mortal as yet To question your empire has dar'd; But men of discerning Have thought that in learning, To yield to a lady was hard. Impertinent schools, Have reading to females denied: So papists refuse The Bible to use, Lest flocks should be wise as their guide. 'Twas a woman at first. (Indeed she was curst) In knowledge that tasted delight, The laws should decree To the first possessor the right. Then bravely, fair dame, Resume the old claim, Which to your whole sex does belong; From a second bright Eve, The knowledge of right and of wrong. But if the first Eve Hard doom did receive, When only one apple had she, What a punishment new Shall be found out for you, Who tasting have robb'd the whole tree? EXTEMPORANEOUS LINES ON A PORTRAIT OF LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU, PAINTED BY KNELLER. THE playful smiles around the dimpled mouth, That happy air of majesty and truth, So would I draw: but oh! 'tis vain to try; My narrow genius does the power deny. The equal lustre of the heavenly mind, Where every grace with every virtue's join'd; LINES SUNG BY DURASTANTI, WHEN SHE TOOK LEAVE OF THE ENGLISH STAGE. GENEROUS, gay, and gallant nation, All but Cupid's gentle darts! From your charms, O who would run? Happy soil, adieu! adieu! Let old charmers yield to new. In arms, in arts, be still more shining; All your joys be still increasing; All your tastes be still refining; All your jars for ever ceasing: UPON THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH'S HOUSE AT WOODSTOCK. SEE, sir, here's the grand approach, This way is for his Grace's coach; There lies the bridge, and here's the clock; Observe the lion and the cock, The spacious court, the colonnade, And mark how wide the hall is made! Thanks, sir, cried I, 'tis very fine, VERSES LEFT BY MR. POPE, ON HIS LYING IN THE SAME BED WHICH WILMOT, THE CELEBRATED EARL OF ROCHESTER, SLEPT IN AT ADDERBURY, THEN BELONGING TO THE DUKE OF ARGYLE, JULY 9TH, 1739. WITH no poetic ardour fir'd I press the bed where Wilmot lay; That here he lov'd, or here expir'd, Begets no numbers grave or gay. Beneath thy roof, Argyle, are bred Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie Such flames as high in patriots burn, THE CHALLENGE. A COURT BALLAD. TO THE TUNE OF TO ALL YOU LADIES NOW AT LAND, ETC. To one fair lady out of court, And two fair ladies in, Who think the Turk1 and Pope 2 a sport, And wit and love no sin; Come these soft lines, with nothing stiff in, What With a fa, la, la. passes in the dark third row, And what behind the scene, Couches and crippled chairs I know, 1 Ulrick, the little. Turk. 2 The Author. 8 Ladies of the Court of the Princess Caroline. |