"What could luxurious woman wish for more. To fix her joys, or to extend her pow'r? Their every wish was in this Mary seen. Gay, witty, youthful, beauteous, and a queen. Vain useless blessings with ill-conduct join'd! Light as the air, and fleeting as the wind. Whatever poets write, and lovers vow. Beauty, what poor omnipotence hast thou? Queen Bess had wisdom, council, power and laws; How few espous'd a wretched beauty's cause? Learn thence, ye fair, more solid charms to prize, Contemn the idle flatt'rers of your eyes. The brightest object shines but while 'tis new. That influence lessens by familiar view. 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. Two great examples have been shown to-day, To what sure ruin passion does betray, What long repentance to short joys is due, When reason rules, what glory must ensue. If you will love, love like Eliza then, Love for amusement, like those traitors, men. Think that the pastime of a leisure hour She favor'd oft--but never shar'd her pow'r. The traveller by desert wolves pursued, If by his heart the savage foe's subdu'd, The world will still the noble act applaud, Though victory was gain'd by needful fraud. Such is, my tender sex, our helpless case, And such the barbarous heart, hid by the begging face, By passion fir'd, and not withheld by shame, They cruel hunters are, we trembling game. Trust me, dear ladies, (for I know 'em well), They burn to triumph, and they sigh to tell: Cruel to them that yield, cullies to them that sell. Believe me, 'tis far the wiser course, Superior art should meet superior force: Hear, but be faithful to your int'rest still: Secure your hearts--then fool with whom you will." At Twickenham the Duke seems in some degree to have relied for his entertainment upon his pen. There he wrote his articles for the _True Briton_, and also indited various trifles in verse. Never neglecting an opportunity to indulge his humour, when Lady Mary Wortley Montagu wrote a poem on the untimely death of a friend, he could not refrain from presenting her with a parody. ON THE DEATH OF MRS. BOWES _By Lady Mary Wortley Montagu_