The Lives of the Poets of Great Britain and Ireland/Volume 4/Mrs. Manley
Mrs. Manley,
The celebrated authoreſs of the Atalantis, was born in Hampſhire, in one of thoſe iſlands which formerly belonged to France, of which her father Sir Roger Manley was governor; who afterwards enjoyed the ſame poſt in other places in England. He was the ſecond ſon of an ancient family; the better part of his eſtate was ruined in the civil war by his firm adherence to Charles I. He had not the ſatisfaction of ever being taken notice of, nor was his loyalty acknowledged at the reſtoration. The governor was a brave gallant man, of great honour and integrity.
He became a ſcholar in the midſt of the camp, having left the univerſity at the age of ſixteen, to follow the fortunes of Charles I. His temper had too much of the Stoic in it to attend much to the intereſt of his family: After a life ſpent in the civil and foreign wars, he began to love eaſe and retirement, devoting himſelf to his ſtudy, and the charge of his little poſt, without following the court; his great virtue and modeſty, debaring him from ſolliciting favours from ſuch perſons as were then at the helm of affairs, his deſerts were buried, and forgotten. In this ſolitude he wrote ſeveral trails for his own amuſement, particularly his Latin Commentaries of the Civil Wars of England. He was likewiſe author of the firſt volume of that admired work, the Turkiſh Spy. One Dr. Midgley, an ingenious phyſician, related to the family by marriage, had the charge of looking over his papers. Amongſt them he found that manuſcript, which he reſerved to his proper uſe, and by his own pen, and the aſſiſtance of ſome others, continued the work till the eighth volume was finiſhed, without having the honeſty to acknowledge the author of the firſt.
The governor likewiſe wrote the Hiſtory of the Rebellion in England, Scotland, and Ireland; wherein the moſt material paſſages, battles, ſieges, policies, and ſtratagems of war, are impartially related on both ſides, from the year 1640, to the beheading of the duke of Monmouth, 1688, in three parts, printed in octavo, in the year 1691.
His daughter, our authoreſs, received an education ſuitable to her birth, and gave very early diſcoveries of a genius, not only above her years, but much ſuperior to what is uſually to be found amongſt her own ſex. She had the misfortune to loſe her mother, while ſhe was yet an infant, a circumſtance which laid the foundation of many calamities, which afterwards befell her.
The brother of Sir Roger Manley, who was of principles very oppoſite to his, joined with the Parliamentarian party; and after Charles I. had ſuffered, he engaged with great zeal in the cauſe of thoſe who were for ſettling a new form of government; in which, however, they were diſappointed by the addreſs of Cromwell, who found means to transfer the government into his own hands, and in place of inſtituting a republic, reſtored monarchy under another name, and erected a tyranny as dangerous, perhaps, in its conſequences, as that which he had contributed to overthrow. During theſe heats and diviſions, Mr. Manley, who adhered to the moſt powerful party, was fortunate enough to amaſs an eſtate, and purchaſed a title; but theſe, upon the reſtoration, reverted back to the former poſſeſſor; ſo that he was left with ſeveral ſmall children unprovided for. The eldeſt of theſe orphans, Sir Roger Manley took under his protection, beſtowed a very liberal education on him, and endeavoured to inſpire his mind with other principles, than thoſe he had received from his father. This young gentleman had very promiſing parts, but under the appearance of an open ſimplicity, he concealed the moſt treacherous hypocriſy. Sir Roger, who had a high opinion of his nephew’s honour, as well as of his great abilities, on his deathbed bequeathed to him the care of our authoreſs, and her youngeſt ſiſter.
This man had from nature a very happy addreſs, formed to win much upon the hearts of unexperienced girls; and his two couſins reſpected him greatly. He placed them at the houſe of an old, out-of-faſhion aunt, who had been a keen partizan of the royal cauſe during the civil wars; ſhe was full of the heroic ſtiffneſs of her own times, and would read books of Chivalry, and Romances with her ſpectacles.
This fort of converſation, much infected the mind of our poeteſs, and fill’d her imagination with lovers, heroes, and princes; made her think herſelf in an inchanted region, and that all the men who approached her were knights errant. In a few years the old aunt died, and left the two young ladies without any controul; which as ſoon as their couſin Mr. Manley heard, he haſted into the country, to viſit them; appeared in deep mourning, as he ſaid for the death of his wife; upon which the young ladies congratulated him, as they knew his wife was a woman of a moſt turbulent temper, and ill fitted to render the conjugal life tolerable.
This gentleman, who had ſeen a great deal of the world, and was acquainted with all the artifices of ſeducing, loſt no time in making love to his couſin, who was no otherwiſe pleaſed with it, than as it anſwered ſomething to the character ſhe had found in thoſe books, which had poiſoned and deluded her dawning reaſon. Soon after theſe proteſtations of love were made, the young lady fell into a fever, which was like to prove fatal to her life.
The lover and her ſiſter never quitted the chamber for ſixteen nights, nor took any other repoſe than throwing themſelves alternately upon a little pallet in the ſame room. Having in her nature a great deal of gratitude, and a very tender ſenſe of benefits; ſhe promiſed upon her recovery to marry her guardian, which as ſoon as her health was ſufficiently reſtored, ſhe performed in the preſence of a maid ſervant, her ſiſter, and a gentleman who had married a relation. In a word, ſhe was married, poſſeſſed, and ruin’d.
The huſband of our poeteſs brought her to London, fixed her in a remote quarter of it, forbad her to ſtir out of doors, or to receive the viſits of her ſiſter, or any other relations, friends, or acquaintance. This uſage, ſhe thought exceeding barbarous, and it grieved her the more exceſſively, ſince ſhe married him only becauſe ſhe imagined he loved and doated on her to diſtraction; for as his perſon was but ordinary, and his age diſproportioned, being twenty-years older than ſhe, it could not be imagined that ſhe was in love with him.—She was very uneaſy at being kept a priſoner; but her huſband’s fondneſs and jealouſy was made the pretence. She always loved reading, to which ſhe was now more than ever obliged, as ſo much time lay upon her hands: Soon after ſhe proved with child, and ſo perpetually ill, that ſhe implored her huſband to let her enjoy the company of her ſiſter and friends. When he could have no relief from her importunity (being aſſured that in ſeeing her relations, ſhe muſt diſcover his barbarous deceit) he thought it was beſt to be himſelf the relator of his villany; he fell upon his knees before her, with ſo much ſeeming confuſion, diſtreſs, and anguiſh, that ſhe was at a loſs to know what could mould his ſtubborn heart to ſuch contrition. At laſt, with a thouſand well counterfeited tears, and ſighs, he ſtabb’d her with the wounding relation of his wife’s being ſtill alive; and with a hypocrite’s pangs conjured her to have ſome mercy on a loſt man as he was, in an obſtinate, inveterate paſſion, that had no alternative but death, or poſſeſſion.
He urged, that could he have ſupported the pain of living without her, he never would have made himſelf ſo great a villain; but when the abſolute queſtion was, whether he ſhould deſtroy himſelf, or betray her, ſelf-love had turned the ballance, though not without that anguiſh to his ſoul, which had poiſoned all his delights, and planted dangers to ſtab his peace. That he had a thouſand times ſtarted in his ſleep with guilty apprehenſions; the form of her honoured father perpetually haunting his troubled dreams, reproaching him as a traitor to that truſt which in his departing moments he had repoſed in him; repreſenting to his tortured imagination the care he took of his education, more like a father than an uncle, with which he had rewarded him by effecting the perdition of his favourite daughter, who was the lovely image of his benefactor.
With this artful contrition he endeavoured to ſooth his injured wife: But what ſoothing could heal the wounds ſhe had received? Horror! amazement! ſenſe of honour loſt! the world’s opinion! ten thouſand diſtreſſes crowded her diſtracted imagination, and ſhe caſt looks upon the conſcious traitor with horrible diſmay! Her fortune was in his hands, the greateſt part of which was already laviſhed away in the exceſſes of drinking and gaming. She was young, unacquainted with the world; had never experienced neceſſity, and knew no arts of redreſſing it; ſo that thus forlorn and diſtreſſed, to whom could ſhe run for refuge, even from want, and miſery, but to the very traitor that had undone her. She was acquainted with none that could or would eſpouſe her cauſe, a helpleſs, uſeleſs load of grief and melancholy! with child! diſgraced! her own relations either unable, or unwilling to relieve her.
Thus was ſhe detained by unhappy circamſtances, and his prevailing arts to wear away three wretched years with him, in the ſame houſe, though ſhe moſt ſolemnly proteſts, and ſhe has a right to be believed, that no perſuaſion could ever again reconcile her to his impious arms. Whenever ſhe call her eyes upon her ſon, it gave a mortal wound to her peace: The circumſtances of his birth glared full on her imagination; ſhe ſaw him, in future, upbraided with his father’s treachery, and his mother’s misfortunes. Thus forſaken of all the world, in the very morning of her life, when all things ſhuld have been gay, and promiſing, ſhe wore away three wretched years. Mean time her betrayer had procured for himſelf a conſiderable employment; the duties of which obliged him to go into the country where his firſt wife lived. He took leave of his injured innocent, with much ſeeming tenderneſs; and made the moſt ſacred proteſtations, that he would not ſuffer her, nor her child ever to want.
He endeavoured to perſuade her to accompany him into the country, and to ſeduce, and quiet her conſcience, ſhewed her a celebrated piece written in defence of Polygamy, and Concubinage: When he was gone, he ſoon relapſed into his former extravagancies, forgot his promiſe of providing for his child, and its mother, and inhumanly left them a prey to indigence and oppreſſion. The lady was only happy in being releaſed from the killing anguiſh, of every day having before her eyes the object of her undoing.
When ſhe again came abroad into the world, ſhe was looked upon with cold indifference; that which had been her greateſt misfortune, was imputed to her as the moſt enormous guilt; and ſhe was every where ſneered at, avoided, and deſpiſed. What pity is it, what an unfortunate, as well as a falſe ſtep, ſhould damn a woman’s fame! In what reſpect was Mrs. Manley to blame? In what particular was ſhe guilty? to marry her couſin, who paſſionately profeſſed love to her, and who ſolemnly vowed himſelf a widower, could not be guilt; on the other hand it had prudence and gratitude for its baſis. Her continuing in the houſe with him after he had made the diſcovery, cannot be guilt, for by doing ſo, ſhe was prevented from being expoſed to ſuch neceſſities as perhaps would have produced greater ruin. When want and beggary ſtare a woman in the face, eſpecially one accuſtomed to the delicacies of life, then indeed is virtue in danger; and they who eſcape muſt have more than human aſſiſtance.
Our poeteſs now perceived, that together with her reputation, ſhe had loft all the eſteem, that her converſation and abilities might have elſe procured her; and ſhe was reduced to the deplorable neceſſity of aſſociating with thoſe whoſe fame was blaſted by their indiſcretion, becauſe the more ſober and virtuous part of the ſex did not care to riſk their own characters, by being in company with one ſo much ſuſpected, and againſt whom the appearance of guilt was too ſtrong.
Under this dilemma, it is difficult to point out any method of behaviour, by which ſhe would not be expoſed to cenſure: If ſhe had ſtill perſiſted in ſolitude, the ill-natured world would have imputed to it a cauſe, which is not founded on virtue; beſides, as the means of ſupport were now removed, by the perfidy of Mr. Manley, ſhe muſt have periſhed by this reſolution.
In this caſe, the reader will not be much ſurprized to find our authoreſs, under the patronage of the ducheſs of Cleveland, a miſtreſs of king Charles the II.d’s, who was juſtly reckoned one of the moſt celebrated beauties of that age. Mrs. Manley was paying a viſit to a lady of her grace’s acquaintance, when ſhe was introduced into the favour of this royal courtezan; and as the ducheſs of Cleveland was a woman of parts and genius, ſhe could not but be charmed with the ſprightlineſs of her converſation. She was fond of new faces, and immediately contracted the greateſt intimacy with our poeteſs, and gave her a general invitation to her table. The lady at whole houſe the ducheſs became acquainted with Mrs. Manley, ſoon perceived her indiſcretion in bringing them together; for the love of novelty ſo far prevailed on the ducheſs, that herſelf was immediately diſcarded, and the affection formerly bellowed upon her, was laviſhed on Mrs. Manley.
This procured our poeteſs an inveterate enemy; and the greateſt blow that was ever ſtruck at her reputation, was by that woman, who had been before her friend. She was not content to inform perſons who began to know and eſteem Mrs. Manley, that her marriage was a cheat; but even endeavoured to make the ducheſs jealous of her new favourite’s charms, in reſpect of Mr. Goodman the player, who at that time had the honour of approaching her grace’s perſon, with the freedom of a gallant.
As the ducheſs of Cleveland was a woman of a very fickle temper, in ſix months time ſhe began to be tired of Mrs. Manley. She was quarelſome, loquacious, fierce, exceſſively fond, or downright rude; when ſhe was diſguſted with any perſon, ſhe never failed to reproach them, with all the bitterneſs of wit ſhe was miſtreſs of, with ſuch malice, and ill-nature, that ſhe was hated, not only by all the world, but by her own children and ſervants: The extremes of prodigality, and covetouſneſs, of love, and hatred, of dotage, and fondneſs, met in her.
A woman of this temper will be at no loſs for the means of effecting any one’s ruin, and having now conceived an averſion to our poeteſs, ſhe was reſolved to drive her from her houſe, with as much reproach as poſſible; and accordingly gave out, that ſhe had deteſted Mrs. Manley in an intrigue with her own ſon, and as ſhe did not care to give encouragement to ſuch amours, ſhe thought proper to diſcharge her. Whether or not there was any truth in this charge, it is impoſſible for us to determine: But if Mrs. Manley’s own word may be taken, in ſuch a caſe, ſhe was perfectly innocent thereof.
When our authoreſs was diſmiſſed by the ducheſs, ſhe was ſollicited by lieutenant-general Tidcomb, to paſs ſome time with him at his country ſeat; but ſhe excuſed herſelf by telling him, ſhe muſt be in love with a man, before ſhe could think of reſiding with him, which ſhe could not, without a violation of truth, profeſs for him. She told him her love of ſolitude was improved, by her diſguſt of the world, and ſince it was impoſſible for her to be public with reputation, ſhe was reſolved to remain in it concealed.
It was in this ſolitude ſhe compoſed her firſt tragedy, which was much more famous for the language, fire, and tenderneſs, than the conduct. Mrs. Barry diſtinguiſhed herſelf in it, and the author was often heard to expreſs great ſurprize, that a man of Mr. Betterton’s grave ſenſe, and judgment, ſhould think well enough of the productions of a young woman, to bring it upon the ſtage, ſince ſhe herſelf in a more mature age could hardly bear to read it. But as the play ſucceeded, ſhe received ſuch unbounded incenſe from admirers, that her apartment was crowded with men of wit, and gaiety. There is a copy of verſes prefixed to her play, ſaid to be written by a very great hand which deſerve notice.
What! all our ſex in one ſad hour undone?
Loſt are our arts, our learning, our renown
Since nature’s tide of wit came rolling down.
Keen were your eyes we knew, and ſure their darts;
Fire to our ſoul they ſend, and paſſion to our heart!
Needleſs was an addition to ſuch arms,
When all mankind were vaſſals to your charms:
That hand but ſeen, gives wonder and deſire,
Snow to the ſight, but with its touches fire!
Who ſees thy yielding Queen, and would not be
On any terms, the beſt, the happy he;
Entranced we fancy all is extaſy.
Quote Ovid, now no more ye am’rous ſwains,
Delia, than Ovid has more moving ſtrains.
Nature in her alone exceeds all art,
And nature ſure does neareſt touch the heart.
Oh! might I call the bright diſcoverer mine,
The whole fair ſex unenvied I’d reſign;
Give all my happy hours to Delia’s charms,
She who by writing thus our wiſhes warms,
What worlds of love muſt circle in her arms?
They who had a regard for Mrs. Manley could not but obſerve with concern, that her conduct was ſuch, as would ſoon iſſue in her ruin. No language but flattery approached her ear; the Beaux told her, that a woman of her wit, was not to be confined to the dull formalities of her own ſex, but had a right to aſſume the unreſerved freedom of the male, ſince all things were pardonable to a lady, who knew to give laws to others, yet was not obliged to keep them herſelf. General Tidcomb, who ſeems to have been her ſincereſt friend, took the privilege of an old acquaintance to correct her ill taſte, and the wrong turn ſhe gave her judgment, in admitting adulation from ſuch wretches, whoſe praiſe could reflect but little honour, and who would be ready to boaſt of favours they never received, nor indeed ever endeavoured to obtain.
This ſalutary council was rejected; ſhe told him, that ſhe did not think fit to reform a conduct which ſhe reckoned very innocent; and ſtill continued to receive the whiſpers of flatterers, ’till experience taught her the folly of her behaviour, and ſhe lived to repent her indiſcretion.
Her virtue was now nodding, and ſhe was ready to fall into the arms of any gallant, like mellow fruit, without much trouble in the gathering. Sir Thomas Skipwith, a character of gaiety of thoſe times, and, who it ſeems had theatrical connexions, was recommended to her, as being very able to promote her deſign in writing for the ſtage. This knight was in the 50th year of his age, and in the 60th of his conſtitution, when he was firſt introduced to her, and as he had been a long practiſed gallant, he ſoon made addreſſes to her, and whether or no this knight, who was more dangerous to a woman’s reputation, than her virtue, was favoured by her, the world was ſo much convinced of it, that her character was now abſolutely loft. Sir Thomas was a weak, vain, conceited coxcomb, who delighted in boaſting of his conqueſts over women, and what was often owing to his fortune, and ſtation in life, he imputed to his addreſs, and the elegance of his manner, of both which he was totally deſtitute. He even publiſhed Mrs. Manley’s diſhonour, and from that time our ſprightly poeteſs was conſidered, by the ſober part of the ſex, quite abandoned to all ſhame.
When her affair with this ſuperannuated knight was over, ſhe ſoon engaged in another intrigue, ſtill more prejudicial to her character; for it was with a married man, one Mr. Tilly, a gentleman of the Law; with whom ſhe lived a conſiderable time: while he underwent at home many of thoſe ſevere lectures, which the juſt provocation, and jealouſy of his wife taught her to read him. Mrs. Tilly at laſt died, and our gallant was left at his freedom to marry the object of his paſſion; but unluckily his finances were in ſuch a ſituation, that he was obliged to repair them by marrying a woman of fortune. This was a cruel circumſtance; for he really loved, and doated upon Mrs. Manley, and had the felicity of a reciprocal paſſion. She agreed however, in order to repair his fortune, that he ſhould marry a rich young widow, whom he ſoon won by the elegance of his addreſs, while our authoreſs retired into the country to ſpend her days in ſolitude and ſorrow, and bid an everlaſting farewel to the pleaſures of love and gallantry. Mr. Tilly did not many years ſurvive this ſeparation; his life was rendered miſerable at home by the jealouſy of his young wife, who had heard of his affair with Mrs. Manley; he loft his ſenſes, and died in a deplorable ſituation.
During her retirement, our authoreſs, who had a moſt confirmed averſion to the Whig miniſtry, wrote her Atalantis, which was meant as a repreſentation of the characters of ſome of thoſe, who had effected the Revolution. A warrant was granted from the ſecrctary of ſtate’s office, to ſeize the Printer and Publiſher of theſe volumes. This circumſtance reduced the writer to a very troubleſome dilemma; ſhe could not bear the thoughts that innocent people ſhould ſuffer on her account, and ſhe judged it cruel to remain concealed, while they, who were only inferior inſtruments, were ſuffering for her. She conſulted, on this occaſion, her beſt friend, general Tidcomb, who, after rallying her for expoſing people, who had never in particular injured her, he adviſed her to go into France, and made her an offer of his purſe for that purpoſe. This advice ſhe rejected, and came to a determined reſolution, that no perſon ſhould ever ſuffer on her account. The general aſked her, how ſhe ſhould like to be confined in New-gate? to which ſhe anſwered, that ſhe would rather lye in a priſon, after having diſcharged her conſcience, than riot in a palace under its reproaches. The general upon this replied, that theſe things founded very heroic, but there was a great difference between real and imaginary ſufferings, ‘that ſhe had choſen to declare herſelf for the Tories, a party, who never could keep their own, nor other people’s ſecrets, and were ever forgetful of ſuch as ſerved them; that the moſt ſevere critics upon the Tory writings, were the Tories themſelves, who never conſidering the deſign, or honeſt intention of the author, would examine the performance only, and that too with as much ſeverity, as they would an enemy’s, and at the ſame time value themſelves upon being impartial againſt their friends. Then as to gratitude, or generoſity, the Tories did not approach to the Whigs, who never ſuffered any man to go unrewarded, however dull, or inſignificant, provided he declared himſelf to be for them; whereas the Tories had no general intereſt, and conſequently no particular, each perſon refuſing to contribute towards the benefit of the whole; and if it ſhould happen, that ſhe ſhould periſh, through want, in a jail, they would ſooner condemn her folly, than pity her ſufferings.’
This did not deter our poeteſs from voluntarily preſenting herſelf before the Court of King’s-Bench, as the author of the Atalantis.
When ſhe was examined before the ſecretary (then lord Sunderland) he was aſſiduous to know from whom ſhe had got information of ſome particulars, which they imagined were above her own intelligence. Her defence was with much humility and ſorrow, at the ſame time denying that any perſons were concerned with her, or that ſhe had a farther deſign than writing for her own amuſement, and diverſion in the country, without intending particular reflexions, or characters; when this was not believed, and the contrary urged againſt her by ſeveral circumſtances, ſhe ſaid, ‘then it muſt be by inſpiration, becauſe knowing her own innocence, ſhe could account for it no other way.’ The ſecretary replied,’ ‘that inſpiration uſed to be upon a good account, and her writings were ſtark naught.’ She, with an air of penitence, ‘acknowledged, that his lordſhip’s obſervation might be true, but that there were evil angels, as well as good, ſo that nevertheleſs what ſhe had wrote, might ſtill be by inſpiration.’
In conſequence of this examination, our authoreſs was cloſe ſhut up in a meſſenger’s houſe, without being allowed pen, ink, and paper. However her council ſued out her Habeas Corpus at the King’s-Bench Bar, and ſhe was admitted to bail.
Whether thoſe in power were aſhamed to bring a woman to her trial, for writing a few amorous trifles, or our laws were defective, as was generally conjectured, becauſe ſhe had diſguiſed her ſatire under romantic names, and a feigned ſcene of action, ſhe was diſcharged, after ſeveral times expoſing her in perſon, to croſs the court before the Bench of Judges, with her three attendants, the Printer, and two Publiſhers.
Not long after this a total change of the miniſtry enſued, the ſtateſmen to whom ſhe had been obnoxious were removed, and conſequently all her fears upon that ſcore diſſipated; her native gaiety, and good humour returned, and ſhe again employed herſelf in writing a tragedy for the ſtage, and reſolved never more to deal in politics, as being much out of the natural ſphere of a woman: ſhe was perſuaded it was folly in one in her ſtation, to diſoblige any party by a pen equally qualified to divert all.
Being advanced to the autumn of her charms, ſhe converſed with the oppoſite ſex, in a manner very delicate, ſenſible, and agreeable, and when ſhe felt that time had left his impreſſion upon her brow, ſhe did not court praiſe and flattery. The greateſt genius’s of the times converſed freely with her, and gave her daily proofs of eſteem, and friendſhip, except Sir Richard Steele, with whom it ſeems ſhe was at variance; and indeed Sir Richard ſufficiently expoſed himſelf by his manner of taking revenge; for he publiſhed to the world that it was his own fault he was not happy with Mrs. Manley, for which omiſſion he publickly, and gravely aſked her pardon.
Theſe are the moſt material incidents in the life of our poeteſs; a lady, who was born with high powers from nature, which were afterwards cultivated by enjoying the brighteſt converſation; the early part of her life was unfortunate, ſhe fell a ſacrifice to a ſeducer, who laid the foundation for thoſe errors ſhe afterwards committed, and of thoſe ſufferings ſhe underwent; ſhe had a high reliſh for the pleaſures of life; ſhe was extremely ſuſceptible of the paſſion of love, and treated it with a peculiar vivacity.
Her dramatic works are
1. The Lover, or The Jealous Huſband; acted at the Theatre-Royal, 1696. This play did not ſucceed in the repreſentation.
2. The Royal Miſchief, a Tragedy; acted by his Majeſty’s Servants in the Theatre in Lincoln’s-Inn-Fields, 1696. This was exhibited with general applauſe.
3. Lucius, the Firſt Chriſtian King of Britain, a Tragedy; acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane by his Majeſty’s Servants, and dedicated to Sir Richard Steele. She has written ſeveral poems, and we ſhall ſelect, as a ſpecimen, an Epiſtle to the Counteſs of Briſlol, which will ſhew how much ſhe poſſeſſed the power of delicate numbers; ſhe has alſo in print a volume of Letters, the ſecond edition of which was publiſhed in 1713. She died July 11, 1724.
To the Right Honourable the
Counteſs of Briſtol.
Long had my mind, unknowing how to ſoar,
In humble proſe been train’d, nor aim’d at more:
Near the fam’d ſiſters never durſt aſpire
To ſound a verſe, or touch the tuneful lyre.
’Till Briſtol’s charms diſſolv’d the native cold;
Bad me ſurvey her eyes, and thence be bold.
Thee, lovely Briſtol! thee! with pride I chuſe,
The firſt, and only ſubject of my muſe;
That durſt tranſport me like the bird of Jove,
To face th’ immortal ſource of light above!
Such are thy kindred beams
So bleſſings, with a bounteous hand they give,
So they create, and make creation live.
When charming Felton, of a beauteous race,
Adorn’d in blooming youth, with ev’ry grace;
Firſt ſaw the lovely Suffolk Swain her prize,
The nobleſt conqueſt of the brighteſt eyes!
How many wretched nymphs that union made,
What cold deſpair the warmeſt hearts invade!
What crouds of lovers, hopeleſs and undone,
Deplore thoſe charms which brought their ruin on!
Rich in themſelves—all excellence they find,
Wit! beauty! wiſdom! and a conſtant mind!
No vain deſires of change diſturb their joy;
Such ſweets, like bliſs divine, can never cloy:
Fill’d with that ſpirit which great ſouls inflame,
Their wondrous offspring ſtart to early fame.
In their young minds, immortal ſparkles riſe!
And all their mother flaſhes from their eyes!
From thence ſuch ſcenes of beauty charm the ſight,
We know not where to fix the ſtrong delight!
Hervey’s ſoft features—next, Eliza bright!
Anna juſt dawning, like Aurora’s light!
With all the ſmiling train of Cupids round,
Fond little loves, with flowing graces crown’d.
As ſome fair flowers, who all their bloom diſcloſe,
The Spaniſh Jas’min, or the Britiſh Roſe?
Arrived at full perfection, charm the ſenſe,
Whilſt the young bloſſoms gradual ſweets diſpenſe.
The eldeſt born, with almoſt equal pride;
The next appears in fainter colours dy’d:
New op’ning buds, as leſs in debt to time,
Wait to perform the promiſe of their prime!
All bleſt deſcendants of the beauteous tree,
What now their parent is, themſelves ſhall be.
Oh! could I paint the younger Hervey’s mind,
Where wit and judgment, fire and taſte refin’d
To match his face, with equal art are join’d:
Oh beſt beloved of Jove! to thee alone,
What would enrich the whole, he gives to one!
In Titian’s colours[1] whilſt Adonis glows,
See faireſt Briſtol more than Venus ſhows;
View well the valu’d piece, how nice each part;
Yet nature’s hand ſurpaſſes Titian’s art!
Such had his Venus and Adonis been,
The ſtandard beauty had from thence been ſeen!
Whoſe arbitrary laws had fix’d the doom
To Hervey’s form, and Briſtol’s ever bloom!
As once Kazeia,[2] now Eliza warms
The kindred-fair bequeath’d her all her charms;
Such were her darts, ſo piercing and ſo ſtrong,
Endow’d by Phœbus both, with tuneful ſong:
But far from thee Eliza be her doom;
Snatch’d hence by death, in all her beauty’s bloom.
Long may’ſt thou live, adorning Briſtol’s name,
With future heroes to augment his fame.
When haughty Niobe, with joy and pride,
Saw all her ſhining offspring grace her ſide;
She view’d their charms, exulting at each line,
And then oppos’d ’em to the race divine!
Enrag’d Latona urg’d the ſilver bow:
Immortal vengeance laid their beauties low.
No more a mother nowtoo much ſhe mourn’d,
By grief inceſſant into marble turn’d.
But lovely Briſtol, with a pious mind,
Owns all her bleſſings are from Heav’n aſſign’d.
Her matchleſs Lord—her beauteous numerous race!
Her virtue, modeſty, and ev’ry grace!
For theſe, devoutly, to the gods ſhe bows,
And offers daily praiſe, and daily vows:
Phœbus, well-pleas’d, the ſacrifice regards;
And thus the grateful mother’s zeal rewards:
Beauty and wit, to all of Briſtol’s line!
But each in ſome peculiar grace ſhall ſhine!
Or to excel in courts, and pleaſe the fair!
Or Conqueſt gain thro’ all the wat’ry war!
With harmony divine the ear to charm!
Or ſouls with more melodious numbers warm!
By wond’rous memory ſhall ſome excel
In awful ſenates, and in ſpeaking well!
To hold Aſtræa’s ſcales with equal hand,
And call back juſtice to that happy land!
To teach mankind how beſt the gods to praiſe!
To fix their minds in truth’s unerring ways!
Thus all her honours, Briſtol’s ſons ſhall wear,
Whilſt each his country’s good ſhall make his chiefeſt care!
