Mary Wortley Montagu (Мэри Уортли Монтегю)
Addressed to ——, 1736
With toilsome steps I pass thro' life's dull road (No pack-horse half so tired of his load); And when this dirty journey will conclude, To what new realms is then my way pursued? Say, then does the unbodied spirit fly To happier climes and to a better sky? Or, sinking, mixes with its kindred clay, And sleeps a whole eternity away? Or shall this form be once again renew'd, With all its frailties, all its hopes, endu'd; Acting once more on this detested stage Passions of youth, infirmities of age? I see in Tully what the ancients thought, And read unprejudic'd what moderns taught; But no conviction from my reading springs -- Most dubious on the most important things. Yet one short moment would at once explain What all philosophy has sought in vain; Would clear all doubt, and terminate all pain. Why then not hasten that decisive hour; Still in my view, and ever in my pow'r? Why should I drag along this life I hate, Without one thought to mitigate the weight? Whence this mysterious bearing to exist, When ev'ry joy is lost, and ev'ry hope dismiss'd? In chains and darkness wherefore should I stay, And mourn in prison whilst I keep the key?
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