Mary Wortley Montagu (Мэри Уортли Монтегю)
To a Friend on His Travels
From this vile town, immers'd in smoke and care, To you who brighten in a purer air, Your faithful friend conveys her tenderest thought (Though now perhaps neglected and forgot). May blooming health your wonted mirth restore, And every pleasure crown your every hour; Caress'd, esteem'd, and lov'd, your merit known, And foreign lands admire you, like your own: Whilst I in silence various fortunes bear, Distracted with the rage of bosom-war: My restless fever tears my changeful brain, With mix'd ideas of delight and pain; Sometimes soft views my morning dreams employ In the faint dawn of visionary joy; Which rigid reason quickly drives away -- I seek the shade and fly from rising day: In pleasing madness meet some moment's ease, And fondly cherish my belov'd disease. If female weakness melt my woman's mind, At least no weakness in the choice I find, Not sooth'd to softness by a warbling flute, Nor the bought merit of a birthday suit; Not lost my heart by the surprising skill In opera tunes, in dancing, or quadrille. The only charm my inclination moves Is such a virtue, Heaven itself approves! A soul superior to each vulgar view, Great, steady, gentle, generous, and true. How I regret my trifling hours past, And look with sorrow oe'r the dreary waste! In false pursuits and vanity bestow'd, The perfect image of a dirty road; Through puddles oft, o'er craggy rocks I stray, A tiresome dull uncomfortable way: And after toiling long through thick and thin To reach some meanly mercenary inn, The bills are high, and very bad the fare, I curse the wretched entertainment there: And, jogging on, resolve to stop no more Where gaudy signs invite me to the door.
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