A book of women's verse - Unknown

And to thy books shall ope their eyes no more,

Than to thy person they wou’d do their door.

[2] Pope, who had libelled her.

Is it to me, this sad lamenting strain?

Are heaven’s choicest gifts bestowed in vain?

A plenteous fortune, and a beauteous bride,

Your love rewarded, gratify’d your pride:

Yet leaving her—’tis me that you pursue