There was the famous Lucy Percy, Countess of Carlisle, very clever, and very fantastic, who aspired to be the Aspasia, the De Rambouillet of her day, and did not quite succeed. She was celebrated by almost all the contemporary poets, and even in French, by Voiture. There was Lucy Harrington, Countess of Bedford, who, notwithstanding the accusation of vanity and extravagance which has been brought against her, was an amiable woman, and munificently rewarded, in presents and pensions, the incense of the poets around her. I know not what her Ladyship may have paid for the following exquisite lines by Ben Jonson; but the reader will agree with me, that it could not have been _too_ much. ON LUCY COUNTESS OF BEDFORD. This morning, timely rapt with holy fire, I thought to form unto my zealous muse What kind of creature I could most desire To honour, serve, and love; as poets use: I meant to make her fair, and free, and wise, Of greatest blood, and yet more good than great. I meant the day-star should not brighter rise, Nor lend like influence from his ancient seat. I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet, Hating that solemn vice of greatness, _pride_; I meant each softest virtue there should meet, Fit in that softer bosom to reside. Only a learned, and a manly soul I purpos'd her; that should, with even powers, The rock, the spindle, and the sheers controul Of destiny, and spin her own free hours. Such when I meant to feign, and wished to see, My muse bade Bedford write,--and that was she. There was also the "beautiful and every way excellent" Lady Anne Rich,[11] the daughter-in-law of her who was so loved by Sir Philip Sydney; and the memorable and magnificent--but somewhat masculine--Anne Clifford, Countess of Cumberland, Pembroke, and Dorset, who erected monuments to Spenser, Drayton, and Daniel; and above them all, though living a little later, the Queen herself, Henrietta Maria, whose feminine caprices, French graces, and brilliant eyes, rendered her a very splendid and fruitful theme for the poets of the time.[12] There was at this time a kind of traffic between rich beauties and poor poets. The ladies who, in earlier ages, were proud in proportion to the quantity of blood spilt in honour of their charms, were now seized with a passion for being berhymed. Surrey, and his Geraldine, began this taste in England by introducing the school of Petrarch: and Sir Philip Sydney had entreated women to listen to those poets who promised them immortality,--"For thus doing, ye shall be most fair, most wise, most rich, most every thing!--ye shall dwell upon superlatives:"[13] and women believed accordingly. In spite of the satirist, I do maintain, that the love of praise and the love of pleasing are paramount in our sex, both to the love of pleasure and the love of sway.