AN EPISTLE TO A LADY. November, 1789. Janet Little (later Richmond) Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T126549 Little, Janet, 1759-1813. The Poetical Works of Janet Little, the Scotch Milkmaid. Air Printed by John & Peter Wilson 1792 pp. [125]-128.

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AN EPISTLE TO A LADY . November , 1789. WHILE Morcham does your much lov'd presence share , And Lydia's health claims your maternal care , O Madam , deign with candour to peruse A rustic lay , presented by the Muse . From Loudoun's plains she now awakes the lyre , And gladly would to arduous feats aspire . On the smooth margin of the stream reclin'd , She fondly hopes to please a taste refin'd . What tho' she boast of no peculiar charm , That would the critic of his force disarm ? She humbly deprecates your doom severe , And fain would wish to find you partial here . The Muse alone does this indulgence claim , Else it were impious such a thought to frame . Would you from Morcham cast your mental eye , And the recesses of our castle spy , You'd see Honoria , in her elbow chair , A mind at ease , thoughts unperplex'd with care ; With aspect mild , explore the sacred page , Guide of her youth , and comfort of her age ; In conduct prudent , and in counsel wise ; Her friendship ev'ry virtuous mind must prize . Then view the pair , in bonds of Hymen blest , With little Cupids flutt'ring round their breast . The bliss that's mutual , all their thoughts employ , Whose social hearts partake no selfish joy . To please each other proves their constant aim , While ev'ry act endears the tender claim . Matilda too , your notice must demand ; To paint would here require a Raphael's hand : To trace the radient beauties of her mind , Shall be a task for nobler pens assign'd . I'd rather far her little foibles scan , Though strict inspection finds no more than one . Such anxious care on others she bestows , She quite forgets what to herself she owes . Vouchsafe the charming Celia next a look , Her mind serene , and in her hand a book : Eyes , which at will , can pleasure give or pain , On stupid Humphry Clinker shine in vain . As through the hall and kitchen now you pass , Pray deign to peep among the lower class : The cook's at work ; but , madam , who can know Whether her hands or tongue more swiftly go ? They're nimble both ; but diff'rent is th' effect ; One merits praise , the other disrespect . Poor Mary sighs beneath a load of woes , Hard and uneasy ev'ry turn she does : How light soe'er the task , she'll pond'ring say , " Ah ! Is there not a lion in the way ? " Will seems in haste his master's boots to clean , Old James is driving Turkeys o'er the green , Our crazy-pated dairy-maid just now Is scribbling o'er these senseless lines to you . Hark ! there's a call , O pardon what I've penn'd ; I'm sure you're glad my letter's at an end .