When reason rules, what glory must ensue.
If you will love, love like Eliza then,
Love for amusement, like those traitors, men.
Think that the pastime of a leisure hour
She favor’d oft—but never shar’d her pow’r.
The traveller by desert wolves pursued,
If by his heart the savage foe’s subdu’d,
The world will still the noble act applaud,
Though victory was gain’d by needful fraud.
Such is, my tender sex, our helpless case,
And such the barbarous heart, hid by the begging face,
By passion fir’d, and not withheld by shame,
They cruel hunters are, we trembling game.
Trust me, dear ladies, (for I know ’em well),
They burn to triumph, and they sigh to tell:
Cruel to them that yield, cullies to them that sell.
Believe me, ’tis far the wiser course,
Superior art should meet superior force:
Hear, but be faithful to your int’rest still:
Secure your hearts—then fool with whom you will.”
At Twickenham the Duke seems in some degree to have relied for his entertainment upon his pen. There he wrote his articles for the True Briton, and also indited various trifles in verse. Never neglecting an opportunity to indulge his humour, when Lady Mary Wortley Montagu wrote a poem on the untimely death of a friend, he could not refrain from presenting her with a parody.
ON THE DEATH OF MRS. BOWES
By Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
“Hail, happy bride! for thou art
Three months of rapture crown’d with endless rest.
Merit like yours was Heav’n’s peculiar care,
You lov’d—yet tasted happiness sincere:
To you the sweets of love were only shown,
The sure succeeding bitter dregs unknown.
You had not yet the fatal change deplor’d
The tender lover for th’ imperious lord,
Nor felt the pains that jealous fondness brings,
Nor wept that coldness from possession springs,
Above your sex distinguish’d in your fate,
You trusted—yet experienc’d no deceit.
Soft were your hours, and wing’d with pleasure flew,
No vain repentance gave a sign to you,
And if superior bliss heav’n can bestow,
With fellow-angels you enjoy it now.”
By the Duke of Wharton
“Hail, Poetess! for thou art truly
Of wit, of beauty, and of love possest,
Your muse does seem to bless poor Bowes’s fate,
But far ’tis from you to desire her state,
In every line your wanton soul appears.
Your verse, tho’ smooth, scarce fit for modest ears,
No pangs of jealous fondness doth thou shew.
And bitter dregs of love thou ne’er didst know:
The coldness that your husband oft has mourn’d,
Does vanish quite, when warm’d on Turkish ground.
For Fame does say, if Fame don’t