Here you will find the Long Poem Town Eclogues: 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!