Lady Mary Chudleigh

Would but indulgent Fortune send To me a kind, and faithful Friend, One who to Virtue’s Laws is true, And does her nicest Rules pursue; One Pious, Lib’ral, Just and Brave, And to his Passions not a Slave; Who full of Honour, void of Pride, Will freely praise, and freely chide; But not indulge the smallest Fault, Nor entertain one slighting Thought: Who still the same will ever prove, Will still instruct and still will love: In whom I safely may confide, And with him all my Cares divide: Who has a large capacious Mind, Join’d with a Knowledge unconfin’d: A Reason bright, a Judgement true, A Wit both quick, and solid too: Who can of all things talk with Ease, And whose Converse will ever please: Who charm’d with Wit, and inward Graces, Despises Fools with tempting Faces; And still a beauteous Mind does prize Above the most enchanting Eyes: I would not envy Queens their State, Nor once desire a happier Fate.

Wife and servant are the same, But only differ in the name: For when that fatal knot is tied, Which nothing, nothing can divide: When she the word obey has said, And man by law supreme has made, Then all that’s kind is laid aside, And nothing left but state and pride: Fierce as an Eastern prince he grows, And all his innate rigour shows: Then but to look, to laugh, or speak, Will the nuptial contract break. Like mutes she signs alone must make, And never any freedom take: But still be governed by a nod, And fear her husband as a God: Him still must serve, him still obey, And nothing act, and nothing say, But what her haughty lord thinks fit, Who with the power, has all the wit. Then shun, oh! shun that wretched state, And all the fawning flatt’rers hate: Value your selves, and men despise, You must be proud, if you’ll be wise.

Why, Damon , why, why, why so pressing? The Heart you beg’s not worth possessing: Each Look, each Word, each Smile’s affected, And inward Charms are quite neglected: Then scorn her, scorn her, foolish Swain, And sigh no more, no more in vain. Beauty’s worthless, fading, flying; Who would for Trifles think of dying? Who for a Face, a Shape, wou’d languish, And tell the Brooks, and Groves his Anguish, Till she, till she thinks fit to prize him, And all, and all beside despise him? Fix, fix your Thoughts on what’s inviting, On what will never bear the slighting: Wit and Virtue claim your Duty, They’re much more worth than Gold and Beauty: To them, to them, your Heart resign, And you’ll no more, no more repine.