Published Poems, which, as Boswell informs us, were corrected by Dr. Johnson.
LUCINDA, you in vain dissuade
Two hearts from mutual love,
What amorous youth, or tender maid,
Could e'er their flames remove?
What if the charms in him I see
Only exist in thought;
Yet Cupid, like the Mede's decree,
Is firm and changeth not.
Seek not to know my passion's spring,
The reason to discover;
For reason is an useless thing,
When we've commenc'd the lover.
Should lovers quarrel with their fate,
And ask the reason why
They are condemn'd to dote on that,
Or for this object die?
They must not hope for a reply,
And this is all they know ;
They sigh, and weep, and rave, and die,
Because it must be so.
Love is a mighty God you know,
That rules with potent sway;
And when he draws his awful bow,
We mortals must obey.
Since you the fatal strife endur'd,
And yielded to his dart; How can I hope to be secur'd,
And guard a weaker heart?
Was the wife of a Colonel Madan: her name before marriage was Cowper.
Verses, written in her Brother's Coke upon Littleton.
O THOU, who labour'st in this rugged mine,
May'st thou to gold th' unpolish'd ore refine!
May each dark page unfold its haggard brow!
Doubt not to reap, if thou can'st bear to plough.
To tempt thy care, may, each revolving night,
Purses and maces swim before thy sight!
From hence in times to come, advent'rous deed!
May'st thou essay to look and speak like Mead!
When the black bag and rose no more shall shade
With martial air the honours of thy head;
When the full wig thy visage shall enclose,
And only leave to view thy learned nose;
Safely may'st thou defy beaux, wits, and scoffers,
While tenants, in fee-simple, stuff thy coffers!
LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU,
Born about 1690, died 1762,
Whose Letters every body reads, was the eldest daughter of the Duke of Kingston.
Ar length, by so much importunity press'd,
Take, Congreve, at once the inside of my breast.
This stupid indifference so often you blame,
Is not owing to nature, to fear, or to shame:
I am not as cold as a virgin in lead,
Nor is Sunday's sermon so strong in my head; I know but too well how time flies along,
That we live but few years, and yet fewer are young.
But I hate to be cheated, and never will buy
Long years of repentance for moments of joy.
Oh! was there a man (but where shall I find
Good sense and good-nature so equally join'd?)
Would value his pleasure, contribute to mine;
Not meanly would boast, nor lewdly design;
Not over severe, yet not stupidly vain,
For I would have the power, tho' not give the pain.
No pedant, yet learned; no rake-helly gay,
Or laughing, because he has nothing to say;
To all my whole sex obliging and free,
Yet never be fond of any but me;
In public preserve the decorum that's just,
And shew in his eyes he is true to his trust;
Then rarely approach, and respectfully bow,
But not fulsomely pert, nor foppishly low.
But when the long hours of public are past,
And we meet with champagne and a chicken at last,
May every fond pleasure that moment endear;
Be banish'd afar both discretion and fear!
Forgetting or scorning the airs of the crowd,
He may cease to be formal, and I to be proud,
Till lost in the joy, we confess that we live,
And he may be rude, and yet I may forgive.
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