Here you will find the Long Poem Saturday, the Small-Pox of poet Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
FLAVIA. The wretched FLAVIA on her couch reclin'd, Thus breath'd the anguish of a wounded mind ; A glass revers'd in her right hand she bore, For now she shun'd the face she sought before. 'How am I chang'd ! alas ! how am I grown 'A frightful spectre, to myself unknown ! 'Where's my Complexion ? where the radiant Bloom, 'That promis'd happiness for Years to come ? 'Then with what pleasure I this face survey'd ! 'To look once more, my visits oft delay'd ! 'Charm'd 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, 'Ev'n youth itself, to me is useless now. 'There was a time, (oh ! that I could forget !) 'When opera-tickets pour'd before my feet ; 'And at the ring, where brightest beauties shine, 'The earliest cherries of the spring were mine. 'Witness, O Lilly ; and thou, Motteux, tell 'How much Japan these eyes have made ye sell. 'With what contempt ye you saw me oft despise 'The humble offer of the raffled prize ; 'For at the 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 ; 'For me the Beau has aim'd to be a Wit. 'For me the Wit to nonsense was betray'd ; 'The Gamester has for me his dun delay'd, 'And overseen the card, I would have play'd. 'The bold and haughty by success made vain, 'Aw'd by my eyes has trembled to complain: 'The bashful 'squire touch'd by a wish unknown, 'Has dar'd to speak with spirit not his own ; 'Fir'd by one wish, all did alike adore ; 'Now beauty's fled, and lovers are no more! '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, and the canvas tear ! 'That picture which with pride I us'd to show, 'The lost resemblance but upbraids me now. 'And thou, my toilette! where I oft have sat, 'While hours unheeded pass'd in deep debate, 'How curls should fall, or where a patch to place : 'If blue or scarlet best became my face; 'Now on some happier nymph thy aid bestow ; 'On fairer heads, ye useless jewels glow ! 'No borrow'd lustre can my charms restore ; 'Beauty is fled, and dress is now no more ! 'Ye meaner beauties, I permit ye shine ; 'Go, triumph in the hearts that once were mine ; 'But midst your triumphs with confusion know, ''Tis to my ruin all your arms ye owe. 'Would pitying Heav'n restore my wonted mien, 'Ye still might move unthought-of and unseen. '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 Chymists, what with-held 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, 'Mask'd o'er and trembled at the sight of day; 'MIRMILLO came my fortune to deplore, '(A golden headed cane, well carv'd 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 cry'd, this grief and this despair ? 'You shall again be well, again be fair ; '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 depos'd 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, '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!