YET not these prospects all profusely gay,
The gilded navy that adorns the sea,
The rising city in confusion fair,
Magnificently form'd irregular;
Where woods and palaces at once surprise,
Gardens on gardens, domes on domes arise,
And endless beauties tire the wand'ring eyes;
So sooth my wishes, or so charm my mind,
As this retreat secure from human kind.
No knave's successful craft does spleen excite,
No coxcomb's tawdry splendour shocks my sight;
No mob-alarm awakes my female fear,
No praise my mind, nor envy hurts my ear,
Ev'n fame itself can hardly reach me here:
Impertinence with all her tattling train,
Fair-sounding flattery's delicious bane;
Censorious folly, noisy party-rage
The thousand tongues with which she must engage,
Who dares have virtue in a vicious age.
VERSES
TO THE Lady MARY WORTLEY MONTAGUE,
By Mr POPE.
I.
IN beauty or wit,
No mortal as yet
To question your empire has dar'd;
But men of discerning
Have thought that in learning,
To yield to a lady was hard.
II.
Impertinent schools,
With musty dull rules
Have reading to females deny'd;
So papists refuse
The BIBLE to use,
Lest flocks should be wise as their guide.
III.
'Twas a woman at first
(Indeed she was curst)
In knowledge that tasted delight;
And sages agree,
The laws should decree
To the first possessor the right.