Poetry By English Women

by R. E. ; Pritchard

  About his waist in bed a-nights

  She clung on close – for fear of sprites.

  The doctor understood the call,

  But had not always wherewithal.

  The Lion’s skin too short, you know,

  (As Plutarch’s Morals finely show)

  Was lengthened by the Fox’s tail;

  And Art supplies, where Strength may fail.

  Unwilling then in arms to meet

  The enemy he could not beat, [50]

  He strove to lengthen the campaign,

  And save his forces by chicane.

  Fabius, the Roman chief, who thus

  By fair retreat grew Maximus,

  Shows us, that all warrior can do,

  With force superior is cunctando.

  One day, then, as the foe drew near,

  With Love, and Joy, and Life, and Dear,

  Our Don, who knew this tittle-tattle

  Did, sure as trumpet, call to battle, [60]

  Thought it extremely à propos,

  To ward against the coming blow:

  To ward: But how? ay, there’s the question:

  Fierce the assault, unarmed the bastion.

  The doctor feigned a strange surprise;

  He felt her pulse; he viewed her eyes;

  That was too fast; these rolled too quick:

  She was, he said, or would be sick:

  He judged it absolutely good,

  That she should purge, and cleanse her blood. [70]

  Spa-waters to that end were got:

  If they passed easily or not,

  What matters it? the lady’s fever

  Continued as violent as ever.

  For a distemper of this kind

  (Blackmore and Hans are of my mind)

  If once it youthful blood infects,

  And chiefly of the female sex,

  Is scarce removed by pill or potion;

  Whate’er may be our doctor’s notion. [80]

  One luckless night then, as in bed

  The doctor and the dame were laid,

  Again this cruel fever came:

  High pulse, short breath, and blood in flame.

  What measures shall poor Paulo keep

  With Madam in this piteous taking?

  She, like Macbeth, has murdered sleep,

  And won’t allow him rest, though waking.

  Sad state of matters! when we dare

  Nor ask for peace, nor offer war: [90]

  Nor Livy nor Comines have shown,

  What in this juncture maybe done.

  Grotius might own, that Paulo’s case is

  Harder, than any which he places

  Amongst his Belli, and his Pacis.

  He strove, alas, but strove in vain,

  By dint of logic to maintain

  That all the sex was born to grieve,

  Down to her Ladyship from Eve.

  He ranged his tropes, and preached up patience; [100]

  Backed his opinion with quotations,

  Divines and moralists; and run on

  Quite through from Seneca to Bunyan.

  As much in vain he bid her try

  To fold her arms, to close her eye;

  Telling her, rest would do her good,

  If any thing in Nature could:

  So held the Greeks quite down from Galen,

  Masters and princes of the calling:

  So all our modern friends maintain, [110]

  (Though no great Greeks) in Warwick-lane.

  Reduce, my Muse, the wand’ring song:

  A tale should never be too long.

  The more he talked, the more she burned,

  And sighed, and tossed, and groaned, and turned:

  At last, I wish, said she, my dear –

  (And whispered something in his ear).

  You wish! wish on, the doctor cries:

  Lord! when will womankind be wise?

  What! in your waters; are you mad? [120]

  Why, poison is not half so bad.

  I’ll do – but I give you warning;

  You’ll die before tomorrow morning. –

  ’Tis kind, my dear, what you advise,

  The lady with a sigh replies:

  But life, you know, at best is pain:

  And death is what we should disdain.

  So do it therefore, and adieu:

  For I will die for love of you. –

  Let wanton wives by death be scared: [130]

  But, to my comfort, I’m prepared.

  MARY LEAPOR 1722–1746

  Though nature armed us for the growing ill

  With fraudful cunning and a headstrong will;

  Yet, with ten thousand follies to her charge,

  Unhappy woman’s but a slave at large.

  Born at Marston St Lawrence, Northamptonshire; her father, Philip Leapor, was gardener to Judge Sir John Blencowe. Began writing at about ten or eleven; admired Pope; helped by Bridget Fremantle (‘Artemisia’), daughter of a local rector. Worked as cook-maid to a man who described her as ‘extremely swarthy and quite emaciated, with a long crane-neck, and a short body, much resembling in shape a bass-viol’, and a propensity to scribble while the meat burned. After her mother Anne’s death, looked after her father, who profited from the publication of her poems after her death from measles. Blunden remarks on the ‘ease and good-humour of her self-portraiture’, and her eager concern with ‘the human comedy, with men and women in their wisdom or their folly’.

  Poems upon Several Occasions (London, 1748, 1751); Edmund Blunden, A Northamptonshire Poetess: Mary Leapor (Northampton, 1936).

  from Essay on Friendship

  To Artemisia. – ’Tis to her we sing,

  For her once more we touch the founding string.

  ’Tis not to Cythera’s reign nor Cupid’s fires,

  But sacred Friendship that our muse inspires.

  A theme that suits Aemilia’s pleasing tongue:

  So to the fair ones I devote my song.

  The wise will seldom credit all they hear,

  Though saucy wits should tell thee with a sneer,

  That women’s friendships, like a certain fly,

  Are hatched i’the morning and at ev’ning die. [10]

  ’Tis true, our sex has been from early time

  A constant topic for satiric rhyme:

  Nor without reason – since we’re often found

  Or lost in passion, or in pleasures drowned:

  And the fierce winds that bid the ocean roll,

  Are less inconstant than a woman’s soul:

  Yet some there are that keep the mod’rate way,

  Can think an hour, and be calm a day:

  Who ne’er were known to start into a flame,

  Turn pale or tremble at a losing game, [20]

  Run Chloe’s shape or Delia’s features down,

  Or change complexion at Celinda’s gown:

  But still serene, compassionate and kind,

  Walk through life’s circuit with an equal mind.

  Of all companions I would choose to shun

  Such, whose blunt truths are like a bursting gun,

  Who in a breath count all your follies o’er,

  And close their lectures with a mirthful roar:

  But reason here will prove the safest guide,

  Extremes are dang’rous placed on either side. [30]

  A friend too soft will hardly prove sincere;

  The wit’s inconstant, and the learn’d severe.

  Good breeding, wit, and learning, all conspire

  To charm mankind and make the world admire,

  Yet in a friend but serve an under part:

  The main ingredient is an honest heart […]

  from The Head-ache: To Aurelia

  Aurelia, when your zeal makes known

  Each woman’s failings but your own,

  How charming Silvia’s teeth decay,

  And Celia’s hair is turning grey:

  Yet Celia gay has s
parkling eyes,

  But (to your comfort) is not wise:

  Methinks you take a world of pains,

  To tell us Celia has no brains.

  Now you wise folk, who make such a pother

  About the wit of one another, [10]

  With pleasure would your brains resign,

  Did all your noddles ache like mine.

  Not cuckolds half my anguish know,

  When budding horns begin to grow;

  Nor battered skull of wrestling Dick,

  Who late was drubbed at single-stick;

  Not wretches that in fevers fry,

  Not Sappho when her cap’s awry,

  E’er felt such tort’ring pangs as I;

  Nor forehead of Sir Jeffrey Strife, [20]

  When smiling Cynthio kissed his wife […]

  Just so, Aurelia, you complain

  Of vapours, rheums, and gouty pain;

  Yet I am patient, so should you,

  For cramps and head-aches are our due:

  We suffer justly for our crimes;

  For scandal you, and I for rhymes […]

  Yet there’s a mighty diff’rence too,

  Between the fate of me and you;

  Though you with tott’ring age will bow, [30]

  And wrinkles scar your lovely brow;

  Your busy tongue may still proclaim

  The faults of ev’ry sinful dame:

  You still may prattle nor give o’er,

  When wretched I must sin no more.

  The sprightly Nine must leave me then,

  This trembling hand resign its pen;

  No matron ever sweetly sung,

  Apollo only courts the young;

  And who would not, Aurelia, pray, [40]

  Enjoy his favours while they may?

  Nor cramp nor head-ache shall prevail;

  I’ll still write on, and you shall rail.

  The Sacrifice: An Epistle to Celia*

  If you, dear Celia, cannot bear,

  The low delights that others share:

  If nothing will your palate fit

  But learning, eloquence and wit,

  Why, you may sit alone (I ween)

  Till you’re devoured with the spleen:

  But if variety can please

  With humble scenes and careless ease;

  If smiles can banish melancholy,

  Or whimsy with its parent folly; [10]

  If any joy in these there be,

  I dare invite you down to me.

  You know these little roofs of mine

  Are always sacred to the Nine;

  This day we make a sacrifice

  To the Parnassian deities,

  Which I am ordered by Apollo,

  To show you in the words that follow.

  As first we purge the hallowed room

  With soft utensil called a broom; [20]

  And next for you a throne prepare,

  Which vulgar mortals call a chair,

  While zephyrs from an engine blow,

  And bid the sparkling cinders glow;

  Then gather round the mounting flames,

  The priestess and assembled dames,

  While some inferior maid shall bring

  Clear water from the bubbling spring:

  Shut up in vase of sable dye,

  Secure from each unhallowed eye, [30]

  Fine wheaten bread you next behold,

  Like that which Homer sings of old,

  And by some unpolluted fair

  It must be scorched with wond’rous care:

  So far ’tis done: And now behold

  The sacred vessels – not of gold:

  Of polished earth must they be formed,

  With painting curiously adorned;

  These rites are past: And now must follow

  The grand libation to Apollo, [40]

  Of juices drawn from magic weeds,

  And pith of certain Indian reeds.

  For flow’r of milk the priestess calls,

  Her voice re-echoes from the walls;

  With hers the sister voices blend,

  And with the od’rous steam ascend:

  Each fair one now a sibyl grows,

  And ev’ry cheek with ardour glows.

  And (though not quite beside their wits)

  Are seized with deep prophetic fits: [50]

  Some by mysterious figures show

  That Celia loves a shallow Beau;

  And some by signs and hints declare

  That Damon will not wed Ziphair:

  Their neighbours’ fortunes each can tell,

  So potent is the mighty spell.

  This is the feast and this, my friend,

  Are you commanded to attend:

  Yes at your peril: But adieu,

  I’ve tired both myself and you. [60]

  On Winter

  (In imitation of an Epistle by Ambrose Philips)

  What pictures now shall wanton fancy bring?

  Or how the Muse to Artemisia sing?

  Now shiv’ring Nature mourns her ravished charms,

  And sinks supine in winter’s frozen arms.

  No gaudy banks delight the ravished eye,

  But northern breezes whistle through the sky.

  No joyful choirs hail the rising day,

  But the froze crystal wraps the leafless spray:

  Brown look the meadows, that were late so fine,

  And capped with ice the distant mountains shine; [10]

  The silent linnet views the gloomy sky,

  Skulks to his hawthorn, nor attempts to fly:

  The heavy clouds send down the feathered snow;

  Through naked trees the hollow tempests blow;

  The shepherd sighs, but not his sighs prevail;

  To the soft snow succeeds the rushing hail;

  And these white prospects soon resign their room

  To melting showers and unpleasing gloom;

  The nymphs and swains their aching fingers blow,

  Shun the cold rains and bless the kinder snow; [20]

  While the faint travellers around them see,

  Here seas of mud and there a leafless tree:

  No budding leaves nor honeysuckles gay,

  No yellow crow-foots paint the dirty way;

  The lark sits mournful as afraid to rise,

  And the sad finch his softer song denies.

  Poor daggled Urs’la stalks from cow to cow,

  Who to her sighs return a mournful low;

  While their full udders her broad hands assail,

  And her sharp nose hangs dropping o’er the pail. [30]

  With garments trickling like a shallow spring,

  And his wet locks all twisted in a string,

  Afflicted Cymon waddles through the mire,

  And rails at Winifred creeping o’er the fire.

  Say gentle Muses, say, is this a time

  To sport with poesy and laugh in rhyme;

  While the chilled blood, that hath forgot to glide,

  Steals through its channels in a lazy tide:

  And how can Phoebus, who the Muse refines,

  Smooth the dull numbers when he seldom shines. [40]

  Mira’s Will*

  IMPRIMIS – My departed shade I trust

  To heav’n – My body to the silent dust;

  My name to public censure I submit,

  To be disposed of as the world thinks fit;

  My vice and folly let oblivion close,

  The world already is o’erstocked with those;

  My wit I give, as misers give their store,

  To those that think they had enough before.

  Bestow my patience to compose the lives

  Of slighted virgins and neglected wives; [10]

  To modish lovers I resign my truth,

  My cool reflection to unthinking youth;

  And some good-nature give (’tis my desire)

  To surly husbands, as their needs require;

  And fir
st discharge my funeral – and then

  To the small poets I bequeath my pen.

  Let a small sprig (true emblem of my rhyme)

  Of blasted laurel on my hearse recline;

  Let some grave wight, that struggles for renown

  By chanting dirges through a market-town, [20]

  With gentle step precede the solemn train;

  A broken flute upon his arm shall lean.

  Six comic poets shall the corse surround,

  And all free-holders, if they can be found:

  Then follow next the melancholy throng,

  As shrewd instructors, who themselves are wrong.

  The virtuoso, rich in sun-dried weeds,

  The politician, whom no mortal heeds,

  The silent lawyer, chambered all the day,

  And the stern soldier that receives no pay. [30]

  But stay – the mourners should be first our care:

  Let the freed ’prentice lead the miser’s heir;

  Let the young relict wipe her mournful eye,

  And widowed husbands o’er their garlic cry.

  All this let my executors fulfil,

  And rest assured that this is Mira’s will,

  Who was, when she these legacies designed,

  In body healthy, and composed in mind.

  MARY JONES d. 1778

  Daughter of Oliver Jones of Oxford, and sister of Revd Oliver Jones, Chanter of Christ Church Cathedral, Oxford. Despite her modest social position and financial circumstances (she was probably a governess) had several aristocratic friends. Friend of Dr Johnson, who used to quote Il Penseroso at her: ‘Chauntress oft the woods among, I woo …’; Thomas Warton said, ‘She was a very ingenious poetess … and, on the whole, was a most sensible, agreeable, and amiable woman’. Her volume of poems lists some 1,504 subscribers, beginning with the Prince of Orange and ranging through Christopher Smart, Horace Walpole, David Garrick, and well-nigh innumerable aristocrats, dons, clergymen, lawyers and Joneses.

  Miscellanies in Prose and Verse (Oxford, 1750).

  from An Epistle to Lady Bowyer*

  How much of paper’s spoiled! what floods of ink!

  And yet how few, how very few can think!

  The knack of writing is an easy trade;

  But to think well requires – at least a head.

  Once in an age, one genius may arise,

  With wit well-cultured, and with learning wise.