Mary Wortley Montagu (Мэри Уортли Монтегю)
Epistle to Lord Hervey on the King’s Birthday from the Country
Where I enjoy in contemplative chamber, Lutes, laurels, seas of milk, and ships of amber. Through shining crowds you now make way, With sideling bow and golden key; While wrapped in spleen and easy-chair, For all this pomp so small my care, I scarce remember who are there. Yet in brocade I can suppose The potent Knight whose presence goes At least a yard before his nose: And majesty with sweeping train, That does so many yards contain, Superior to her waiting nymphs, As lobster to attendant shrimps. I do not ask one word of news, Which country damsels much amuse. If a new batch of Lords appears, After a tour of half six years, With foreign years to grace the nation, The Maids of Honour's admiration; Whose bright improvements give surprise To their own lady-mother's eyes: Improvements, such as colts might show, Were mares so mad to let them go; Their limbs perhaps a little stronger, Their manes and tails grown somewhat longer. I would not hear of ball-room scuffles, Nor what new whims adorn the ruffles. This meek epistle comes to tell, On Monday, I in town shall dwell; Where, if you please to condescend In Cavendish-square to see your friend, I shall disclose to you alone Such thoughts as ne'er were thought upon.
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