It is usually stated that this play was written at some time between 1728 and 1730, but it is certain that it was begun at this time— probably it was never finished. Perhaps only the scenario was drawn up, and a few scenes outlined; but that so much at least was done while the author was at Twickenham is proved conclusively by the fact that at this time Lady Mary composed for the play an epilogue, designed to be spoken by Mrs. Oldfield.
"What could luxurious woman wish for more.
To fix her joys, or to extend her pow'r?
Their every wish was in this Mary seen.
Gay, witty, youthful, beauteous, and a queen.
Vain useless blessings with ill-conduct join'd!
Light as the air, and fleeting as the wind.
Whatever poets write, and lovers vow.
Beauty, what poor omnipotence hast thou?
Queen Bess had wisdom, council, power and laws;
How few espous'd a wretched beauty's cause?
Learn thence, ye fair, more solid charms to prize,
Contemn the idle flatt'rers of your eyes.
The brightest object shines but while 'tis new.
That influence lessens by familiar view.
Monarchs and beauties rule with equal sway,
All strive to serve, and glory to obey,
Alike unpitied when depos'd they grow—
Men mock the idol of their former vow.
Two great examples have been shown to-day,
To what sure ruin passion does betray,
What long repentance to short joys is due,
When reason rules, what glory must ensue.
If you will love, love like Eliza then,
Love for amusement, like those traitors, men.
Think that the pastime of a leisure hour
She favor'd oft—but never shar'd her pow'r.
The traveller by desert wolves pursued,
If by his heart the savage foe's subdu'd,
The world will still the noble act applaud,
Though victory was gain'd by needful fraud.
Such is, my tender sex, our helpless case,
And such the barbarous heart, hid by the begging face,
By passion fir'd, and not withheld by shame,
They cruel hunters are, we trembling game.
Trust me, dear ladies, (for I know 'em well),
They burn to triumph, and they sigh to tell:
Cruel to them that yield, cullies to them that sell.
Believe me, 'tis far the wiser course,
Superior art should meet superior force:
Hear, but be faithful to your int'rest still:
Secure your hearts—then fool with whom you will."
At Twickenham the Duke seems in some degree to have relied for his entertainment upon his pen. There he wrote his articles for the True Briton, and also indited various trifles in verse. Never neglecting an opportunity to indulge his humour, when Lady Mary Wortley Montagu wrote a poem on the untimely death of a friend, he could not refrain from presenting her with a parody.
ON THE DEATH OF MRS. BOWES
By Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
"Hail, happy bride! for thou art truly bless'd,
Three months of rapture crown'd with endless rest.
Merit like yours was Heav'n's peculiar care,
You lov'd—yet tasted happiness sincere:
To you the sweets of love were only shown,
The sure succeeding bitter dregs unknown.
You had not yet the fatal change deplor'd
The tender lover for th' imperious lord,
Nor felt the pains that jealous fondness brings,
Nor wept that coldness from possession springs,
Above your sex distinguish'd in your fate,
You trusted—yet experienc'd no deceit.
Soft were your hours, and wing'd with pleasure flew,
No vain repentance gave a sign to you,
And if superior bliss heav'n can bestow,
With fellow-angels you enjoy it now."
THE ANSWER
By the Duke of Wharton
"Hail, Poetess! for thou art truly blest,
Of wit, of beauty, and of love possest,
Your muse does seem to bless poor Bowes's fate,
But far 'tis from you to desire her state,
In every line your wanton soul appears.
Your verse, tho' smooth, scarce fit for modest ears,
No pangs of jealous fondness doth thou shew.
And bitter dregs of love thou ne'er didst know:
The coldness that your husband oft has mourn'd,
Does vanish quite, when warm'd on Turkish ground.
For Fame does say, if Fame don't lying prove,
You paid obedience to the Sultan's love.
Who, fair one, then, was your imperious Lord?
Not Montagu, but Mahomet the word:
Great as your wit, just so is Wortley's love,
Your next attempt will be on thund'ring Jove,
The little angels you on Bowes bestow.
But gods themselves are only fit for you."
No writer of verses likes to have fun poked at them, even in the form of friendly banter, but Lady Mary seems to have borne the affliction admirably.