I faint, I faint; alas, no mortal yet
With eyes undazzled half this splendour met:
But sure I cannot sink, upheld by Thee;
So would I rest unto Eternity.
And now I charge you, Virgins, not to make [20]
The least disturbance, till my Love awake.
(3)
What charming voice is that salutes my ear?
It must be my Beloved’s: he is near:
He is, and yet unfriendly stays without:
He stays, as if he did a welcome doubt.
But hark, methinks I hear him softly say,
Arise my fair, arise, and come away!
For lo the stormy winter’s past and gone;
And summer, dressed in all her pride, comes on:
The warbling birds in airy raptures sing [30]
Their glad Pindarics to the welcome spring:
The fig-trees sprout, the cheerful vines look gay;
Arise my lovely fair, and come away!
Come forth, my dove, my charming innocence;
How canst thou fear, while I am thy defence?
(4)
Do thou the spiteful foxes then destroy,
That would my young aspiring vines annoy.
Not for the world would I exchange my bliss,
While my Beloved’s mine, and I am His.
And till the break of that Eternal Day, [40]
Whose rising Sun shall chase the shades away;
Turn my Beloved, turn again; and thy
Dear sight shall make the lazy moments fly.
from CHAPTER IV
(Bridegroom)
Though all the lower world should ransacked be,
There could be found no parallel for thee:
Thy eyes like doves, thy fair intangling locks,
Curled, and soft as Gilead’s milky flocks:
Like them thy pearly teeth appear, for so
Unsullied from the crystal streams they go.
But oh! To what may I thy lips compare?
Since fragrant roses bloom not half so fair,
The morning ne’er with such a crimson blushed,
When from the arms of sooty night she rushed. [10]
The ripe pomgranate’s scarlets are but faint,
To those fresh beauties that thy cheeks do paint.
Thy neck and breasts, in whiteness, do out-go
Ungathered lilies, or descending snow.
And till the dawn of that expected Day,
When all my radiant glories I display,
And chase at once the injurious shades away:
I’ll on the hills of frankincense reside,
And pass the time with thee my charming bride.
from CHAPTER V
(Daughters of Jerusalem)
What thy Beloved is, we first would know,
Fairest of women! thou dost charge us so.
What charms unequalled in him dost thou see,
Impatient fair! to raise these storms in thee?
(Spousa)
Commencing all perfection, he is such
Your most exalted thought can hardly touch,
Unsullied heaps of snow are not so white,
He’s fairer than condensed beams of light,
His rosy cheeks of such a lucent dye,
As Sol ne’er gilded on the morning sky. [10]
His head like unpolished gold, his graceful hair
Dark as the plumes that jetty ravens wear.
His eyes, the endless magazines of Love,
How soft! how sweet! how powerfully they move!
He breathes more sweetness than the infant morn,
When heavenly dews the flow’ry plains adorn.
The fragrant drops of rich Arabian gums
Burnt on the altar, yield not such perfumes.
His hands, surpassing lilies, graced with gems,
Fit to enrich celestial diadems. [20]
His breast smooth ivory, enamelled all
With veins, which sapphires ’twere unjust to call.
Divine his steps, with his majestic air,
Not ev’n the lofty cedars can compare.
So sweet his voice, the list’ning angels throng
With silent harps to th’music of his tongue.
He’s altogether – lovely, This is He,
Now, Virgins! Pity, though you envy me.
LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU 1689–1762
Her father was Evelyn Pierrepoint, later Duke of Kingston; her mother, Lady Mary Fielding, died when she was young; educated by a governess, but taught herself Latin. In 1706 met Edward Wortley, a politician eleven years older; when her father tried to marry her off (to the Hon. Clotworthy Skeffington) the couple eloped on the wedding eve (1712). Lived in London, where they had Court connections; had two children, but the marriage faded away. Knew ‘everybody’; Pope’s Eloise to Abelard was directed at her, though he later turned against her (reputedly because she mocked his advances) and attacked her viciously – ‘From furious Sappho scarce a milder fate, / P—x’d by her love, or libell’d by her hate’. In 1715 small-pox ruined her beauty, leaving her no eyelashes and a deeply pitted skin. Visited Constantinople (and the Sultan’s seraglio) as Ambassador’s wife; wrote verses and a political periodical. In 1736 became infatuated with a bisexual 24-year-old Italian, Francesco Algarotti, pursuing him (unsuccessfully) to Europe, travelling with thirteen cases, including furniture and some five hundred books. For the next twenty years lived abroad, returning only on her husband’s death. Horace Walpole described her as ‘not handsome, had a wild staring eye, was much marked with the smallpox, which she endeavoured to conceal by filling up the depressions with white paint’.
Robert Halsband and Isobel Grundy (eds.), Lady Mary Wortley Montagu: Essays and Poems, and Simplicity, a Comedy (Oxford: Clarendon, 1977); Robert Halsband, The Life of Mary Wortley Montagu (Oxford: Clarendon, 1956).
from Six Town Eclogues*
SATURDAY: THE SMALL POX
Flavia
The wretched Flavia, on her couch reclined,
Thus breathed the anguish of a wounded mind.
A glass reversed in her right hand she bore;
For now she shunned the face she sought before.
How am I changed! Alas, how am I grown
A frightful spectre to my self unknown!
Where’s my complexion, where the radiant bloom
That promised happiness for years to come?
Then, with what pleasure I this face surveyed!
To look once more, my visits oft delayed! [10]
Charmed with the view, a fresher red would rise,
And a new life shot sparkling from my eyes.
Ah faithless glass, my wonted bloom restore!
Alas, I rave! that bloom is now no more!
The greatest good the gods on men bestow,
Even youth it self to me is useless now.
There was a time, (Oh that I could forget!)
When opera tickets poured before my feet,
And at the Ring where brightest beauties shine,
The earliest cherries of the park were mine. [20]
Witness oh Lilly! and thou Motteux tell!
How much Japan these eyes have made you sell,
With what contempt you saw me oft despise
The humble offer of the raffled prize:
For at each raffle still the prize I bore,
With scorn rejected, or with triumph wore;
Now beauty’s fled, and presents are no more.
For me, the patriot has the House forsook,
And left debates to catch a passing look,
For me, the soldier has soft verses writ, [30]
For me, the beau has aimed to be a wit,
For me, the wit to nonsense was betrayed,
The gamester has for me his dun delayed,
And overseen the card, I would have paid.
The bold and haughty, by success made vain,
Awed by my eyes has trembled t
o complain,
The bashful squire touched with a wish unknown
Has dared to speak with spirit not his own,
Fired with one wish, all did alike adore,
Now beauty’s fled, and lovers are no more. [40]
As round the room I turn my weeping eyes,
New unaffected scenes of sorrow rise;
Far from my sight that killing picture bear,
The face disfigure, or the canvas tear!
That picture, which with pride I used to show,
The lost resemblance but upbraids me now.
And thou my toilette! where I oft have sate,
While hours unheeded passed in deep debate,
How curls should fall, or where a patch to place,
If blue or scarlet best became my face; [50]
Now on some happier nymph thy aid bestow,
On fairer heads, ye useless jewels, glow!
No borrowed lustre can my charms restore,
Beauty is fled, and dress is now no more.
Ye meaner beauties, I permit you, shine,
Go triumph in the hearts, that once were mine,
But midst your triumphs, with confusion know,
’Tis to my ruin all your charms ye owe.
Would pitying Heaven restore my wonted mien,
You still might move, unthought of, and unseen – [60]
But oh, how vain, how wretched is the boast,
Of beauty faded, and of empire lost!
What now is left, but weeping to deplore
My beauty fled, and empire now no more!
Ye cruel chemists, what withheld your aid?
Could no pomatums save a trembling maid?
How false and trifling is that art you boast;
No art can give me back my beauty lost!
In tears surrounded by my friends I lay,
Masked o’er, and trembling at the light of day; [70]
Mirmillo came my fortune to deplore
(A golden headed cane, well carved he bore),
Cordials, he cried, my spirits must restore, –
Beauty is fled, and spirit is no more!
Galen the grave, officious Squirt was there,
With fruitless grief and unavailing care;
Machaon too, the great Machaon, known
By his red cloak, and his superior frown,
And why (he cried) this grief, and this despair?
You shall again be well, again be fair, [80]
Believe my oath (with that an oath he swore),
False was his oath! my beauty is no more.
Cease hapless maid, no more thy tale pursue,
Forsake mankind, and bid the world adieu.
Monarchs, and beauties rule with equal sway,
All strive to serve, and glory to obey,
Alike unpitied when deposed they grow,
Men mock the idol of their former vow.
Adieu ye Parks, in some obscure recess,
Where gentle streams will weep at my distress, [90]
Where no false friend will in my grief take part,
And mourn my ruin with a joyful heart,
There let me live, in some deserted place,
There hide in shades this lost inglorious face.
Ye operas, circles, I no more must view!
My toilette, patches, all the world, adieu!
The Lover, A Ballad*
1
At length by so much importunity pressed,
Take (Molly) at once the inside of my breast,
This 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 time flies along,
That we live but few years and yet fewer are young.
2
But I hate to be cheated, and never will buy
Long years of repentance for moments of joy. [10]
Oh was there a man (but where shall I find
Good sense, and good nature so equally joined?)
Would value his pleasure, contribute to mine,
Not meanly would boast, nor lewdly design,
Not over severe, yet not stupidly vain,
For I would have the power though not give the pain.
3
No pedant yet learned, not rakehelly gay
Or laughing because he has nothing to say,
To all my whole sex, obliging and free,
Yet never be fond of any but me. [20]
In public preserve the decorums are just
And show in his eyes he is true to his trust,
Then rarely approach, and respectfully bow,
Yet not fulsomely pert, nor yet foppishly low.
4
But when the long hours of public are past
And we meet with champagne and a chicken at last,
May every fond pleasure that hour endear,
Be banished afar both discretion and fear,
Forgetting or scorning the airs of the crowd
He may cease to be formal, and I to be proud, [30]
Till lost in the joy we confess that we live,
And he may be rude, and yet I may forgive.
5
And that my delight may be solidly fixed
Let the friend, and the lover be handsomely mixed,
In whose tender bosom my soul might confide,
Whose kindness can soothe me, whose counsel could guide,
From 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. [40]
6
I never will share with the wanton coquette,
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 lewd rake, the dressed fopling despise,
Before such pursuers the wise virgin flies,
And as Ovid has sweetly in parables told,
We harden like trees, and like rivers are cold.
A Receipt to Cure the Vapours
Why will Delia thus retire
And languish life away?
While the sighing crowds admire,
’Tis too soon for hartshorn tea.
All these dismal looks and fretting
Cannot Damon’s life restore,
Long ago the worms have ate him,
You can never see him more.
Once again consult your toilette,
In the glass your face review, [10]
So much weeping soon will spoil it
And no spring your charms renew.
I like you was born a woman –
Well I know what vapours mean,
The disease alas! is common,
Single we have all the spleen.
All the morals that they tell us
Never cured sorrow yet,
Choose among the pretty fellows
One of humour, youth and wit. [20]
Prithee hear him ev’ry morning
At least an hour or two,
Once again at nights returning,
I believe the dose will do.
‘Between your sheets’*
Between your sheets you soundly sleep
Nor dream of vigils that we lovers keep
While all the night, I waking sigh your name,
The tender sound does every nerve inflame,
Imagination shows me all your charms,
The plenteous silken hair, and waxen arms,
The well turned neck, and snowy rising breast
And all the beauties that supinely rest
between your sheets.
Ah Lindamira, could you see my heart, [10]
How fond, how true, how free from fraudful art,
The eager wish, the melting throbbing pain
Which through my very blood and soul I feel,
Which you cannot believe nor I reveal,
Which every metaphor must render less
And yet (methinks) which I could well express
between your sheets.
MARY COLLIER 1689/90-after 1762
Born near Midhurst, Sussex, of ‘poor, but honest Parents’; worked as an agricultural labourer, laundress and domestic servant until, aged sixty-three, she became a farm housekeeper; in 1762 was reported living in a garret in Alton. The Womans Labour, a poem suggesting some sophistication, provides a very emphatic reminder of the realities of pre-industrial labouring life.
Poems on Several Occasions (London, 1736; Winchester, 1762); The Womans Labour: an epistle to Mr. Stephen Duck, in answer to his late poem, called ‘The Thresher’s Labour’ (London, 1739); The Poems of Mary Collier (Petersfield, 1765). Felicity Nussbaum and Laura Brown (eds), The New Eighteenth Century (London and NY: Methuen, 1987).
The Womans Labour, an epistle*
Immortal Bard! thou fav’rite of the Nine!
Enriched by peers, advanced by Caroline!
Deign to look down on one that’s poor and low,
Rememb’ring you yourself was lately so;
Accept these lines; Alas! what can you have
From her, who ever was, and’s still a slave?
No learning ever was bestowed on me;
My life was always spent in drudgery:
And not alone; alas! with grief I find,
It is the portion of poor woman-kind. [10]
Oft have I thought as on my bed I lay,
Eased from the tiresome labours of the day,
Our first extraction from a mass refined,
Could never be for slavery designed;
Till time and custom by degrees destroyed
That happy state our sex at first enjoyed.
Poetry By English Women Page 11