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nation of Pope's antithetic phrasing with Prior's airy turns of style. This is seen especially in the lyric we now reproduce:

Fair Amoret is gone astray,—

Pursue, and seek her, every lover;
I'll tell the signs by which you may
The wandering shepherdess discover.
Coquet and coy at once her air,

Both studied, though both seem neglected;
Careless she is with artful care,

Affecting to seem unaffected.

With skill her eyes dart every glance,

Yet change so soon you'd ne'er suspect them; For she'd persuade they wound by chance, Though certain aim and art direct them.

She likes herself, yet others hates

For that which in herself she prizes;
And, while she laughs at them, forgets
She is the thing that she despises.

The expression here of Affecting to seem unaffected' is. extremely characteristic of the writer's mode, just as the whole poem is a masterly description of a very common type of woman of his time. Here, too, characteristic little effort:

Pious Selinda goes to prayers

If I but ask her favour;

And yet the silly fool's in tears

If she believes I'll leave her.

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a very

Would I were free from this restraint,
Or else had hopes to win her:
Would she could make of me a saint,

Or I of her a sinner!

This is the fine gentleman' all over. Congreve, it is well known, piqued himself far more upon his position as a man of fashion than upon his status as a man of letters, and the weakness is observable in the soupçon of coxcombry more or less noticeable in his occasional verse.

We shall give but one specimen of his satiric work—the epigram on a certain Lesbia:

When Lesbia first I saw, so heavenly fair,
With eyes so bright and with that awful air,
I thought my heart, which durst so high aspire,
Was bold as his who snatch'd celestial fire.

But soon as e'er the beauteous idiot spoke,
Forth from her coral lips such folly broke,

Like balm the trickling nonsense heal'd my wound,
And what her eyes enthrall'd her tongue unbound.

It is, perhaps, cruel to disassociate Pope from the lady whom he most loved and hated during life-the Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, whom he praised or satirised according as she smiled or frowned upon him. So far as the frowning goes, it is well known that the lady was a match even for the author of The Dunciad, her powers of satire being unmistakable, as shown, for example, in her biting verses on the subject of Sir Robert Walpole. How clever, too, was her rapid summary of Lord Lyttelton's Advice to a Lady:' Be plain in dress, and sober in your diet;

In short, my deary, kiss me, and be quiet!

If the poet had a rasping tongue, the lady had a mocking one, and has left behind her many testimonies to the critical eye with which she gazed on her contemporaries. Man delighted her not, nor woman either. In her verses called The Lover,' she tells us what sort of man she would like to have in that capacity, and the description is a sad satire by implication upon the young men of the period. Then, so as to be thoroughly impartial, she turns to the young fashionable lady of the time, and gently quizzes her in lines which are all so characteristic that we have not the heart to omit a single one of them. Let Lady Mary be heard speaking through the mouth of a youthful married dame, whom bad fortune has compelled to ruralise. Thus does she make her melancholy moan:

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By the side of a half-rotten wood
Melantha sat silently down,
Convinc'd that her scheme was not good,
And vex'd to be absent from town.
Whilst pitied by no living soul,

To herself she was forc'd to reply,
And the sparrow, as grave as an owl,
Sat list'ning and pecking hard by.

Alas! silly maid that I was;'

Thus sadly complaining, she cry'd; When first I forsook that dear place,

"T had been better by far that I had dy'd! How gayly I pass'd the long days,

In a round of continued delights! Park, visits, assemblies, and plays,

And a dance to enliven the nights.

How simple was I to believe

Delusive poetical dreams!

Or the flattering landscapes they give,

Of meadows, and murmuring streams. Bleak mountains, and cold starving rocks, Are the wretched result of my pains; The swains greater brutes than their flocks, And the nymphs as polite as the swains.

What tho' I have got my dear Phil;
I see him all night and all day;
I find I must not have my will,
And I've cursedly sworn to obey!
Fond damsel, thy power is lost;

As now I experience too late;
Whatever a lover may boast,

A husband is what one may hate!

And thou, my old woman, so dear,
May all that is left of relief,
Whatever I suffer, forbear—

Forbear to dissuade me from grief;

"Tis in vain, as you say, to repine

At ills which can not be redress'd;
But in sorrows so poignant as mine,
To be patient, alas! is a jest.
If farther to soothe my distress,

Your tender compassion is led,
Come hither and help to undress,

And decently put me to bed.
The last humble solace I wait,

Wou'd Heav'n but indulge me the boon,
May some dream, less unkind than my fate,
In a vision transport me to town.

'Clarissa, meantime, weds a beau,

Who decks her in golden array;
She's the finest at ev'ry fine show,

And flaunts it at park and at play.
Whilst I am here left in the lurch,

Forgot and excluded from view;
Unless when some bumpkin at church
Stares wistfully over the pew.'

Lord Lyttelton belongs, perhaps, rather to the generation of Goldsmith than to that of Pope. We may, however, place him side by side with the clever woman who satirised him. He had himself considerable abilities-did he not write the Dialogues of the Dead and Letters from a Persian ?— and among them was a capacity for humour by no means to be despised, with a turn for style which places him among the neatest writers of his time. He had, like more than one statesman we may have to notice, the true tone and temper of familiar verse, as may be seen in these lines upon a lady who excused herself from doing such and such a thing because she had no time :'

On Thames's bank, a gentle youth

For Lucy sighed with matchless truth,
Even when he sighed in rhyme;

* He was born in 1709, and died in 1773. His Dialogues appeared in 1760; his Letters in 1735.

The lovely maid his flame returned,
And would with equal warmth have burned,
But that she had not time.

Oft he repaired with eager feet
In secret shades this fair to meet

Beneath the accustomed lime;

She would have fondly met him there,
And healed with love each tender care,
But that she had not time.

It was not thus, inconstant maid,
You acted once' (the shepherd said),
When love was in its prime.'

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She grieved to hear him thus complain,
And would have writ to ease his pain,
But that she had not time.

'How can you act so cold a part?
No crime of mine has changed your heart,
If love be not a crime.

We soon must part for months, for years'-
She would have answered with her tears,

But that she had not time.

We have already remarked upon the fondness shown by writers of this time for sarcastic references to the peculiarities of women of fashion. Here is a sort of pendant portrait to that just taken from the gallery of Lady Mary. It is by Thomas Tickell, and is not quite so overtly satirical as the piece with which we have coupled it. It will be noticed that four of the lines are identical with those which Sir Benjamin Backbite quotes as his own composition in the School for Scandal:

Then, behind, all my hair is done up in a plat,
And so, like a cornet's, tuck'd under my hat;
Then I mount on my palfrey as gay as a lark,
And, follow'd by John, take the dust in High Park.
In the way I am met by some smart macaroni,
Who rides by my side on a little bay pony.

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