An
EPISTLE
to
a
LADY
.
IN
vain
,
dear
Madam
,
yes
in
vain
you
strive
;
Alas
!
to
make
your
luckless
Mira
thrive
.
For
Tycho
and
Copernicus
agree
,
No
golden
Planet
bent
its
Rays
on
me
.
'Tis
twenty
Winters
,
if
it
is
no
more
;
To
speak
the
Truth
it
may
be
Twenty
four
.
As
many
Springs
their
'pointed
Space
have
run
,
Since
Mira's
Eyes
first
open'd
on
the
Sun
.
'Twas
when
the
Flocks
on
slabby
Hillocks
lye
,
And
the
cold
Fishes
rule
the
watry
Sky
:
But
tho'
these
Eyes
the
learned
Page
explore
,
And
turn
the
pond'rous
Volumes
o'er
and
o'er
,
I
find
no
Comfort
from
their
Systems
flow
,
But
am
dejected
more
as
more
I
know
.
Hope
shines
a
while
,
but
like
a
Vapour
flies
,
(
The
Fate
of
all
the
Curious
and
the
Wise
)
For
,
Ah
!
cold
Saturn
triumph'd
on
that
Day
,
And
frowning
Sol
deny'd
his
golden
Ray
.
You
see
I'm
learned
,
and
I
shew't
the
more
,
That
none
may
wonder
when
they
find
me
poor
.
Yet
Mira
dreams
,
as
slumbring
Poets
may
,
And
rolls
in
Treasures
till
the
breaking
Day
:
While
Books
and
Pictures
in
bright
Order
rise
,
And
painted
Parlours
swim
before
her
Eyes
:
Till
the
shrill
Clock
impertinently
rings
,
And
the
soft
Visions
move
their
shining
Wings
:
Then
Mira
wakes
,
—
her
Pictures
are
no
more
,
And
through
her
Fingers
slides
the
vanish'd
Ore
.
Convinc'd
too
soon
,
her
Eye
unwilling
falls
On
the
blue
Curtains
and
the
dusty
Walls
:
She
wakes
,
alas
!
to
Business
and
to
Woes
,
To
sweep
her
Kitchen
,
and
to
mend
her
Clothes
.
But
see
pale
Sickness
with
her
languid
Eyes
,
At
whose
Appearance
all
Delusion
flies
:
The
World
recedes
,
its
Vanities
decline
,
Clorinda's
Features
seem
as
faint
as
mine
:
Gay
Robes
no
more
the
aking
Sight
admires
,
Wit
grates
the
Ear
,
and
melting
Musick
tires
:
Its
wonted
Pleasures
with
each
Sense
decay
,
Books
please
no
more
,
and
Paintings
fade
away
:
The
sliding
Joys
in
misty
Vapours
end
:
Yet
let
me
still
,
Ah
!
let
me
grasp
a
Friend
:
And
when
each
Joy
,
when
each
lov'd
Object
flies
,
Be
you
the
last
that
leaves
my
closing
Eyes
.
But
how
will
this
dismantl'd
Soul
appear
,
When
strip'd
of
all
it
lately
held
so
dear
,
Forc'd
from
its
Prison
of
expiring
Clay
,
Afraid
and
shiv'ring
at
the
doubtful
Way
.
Yet
did
these
Eyes
a
dying
Parent
see
,
Loos'd
from
all
Cares
except
a
Thought
for
me
,
Without
a
Tear
resign
her
short'ning
Breath
,
And
dauntless
meet
the
ling'ring
Stroke
of
Death
.
Then
at
th'
Almighty's
Sentence
shall
I
mourn
:
"
Of
Dust
thou
art
,
to
Dust
shalt
thou
return
.
"
Or
shall
I
wish
to
stretch
the
Line
of
Fate
,
That
the
dull
Years
may
bear
a
longer
Date
,
To
share
the
Follies
of
succeeding
Times
With
more
Vexations
and
with
deeper
Crimes
:
Ah
no
—
tho'
Heav'n
brings
near
the
final
Day
,
For
such
a
Life
I
will
not
,
dare
not
pray
;
But
let
the
Tear
for
future
Mercy
flow
,
And
fall
resign'd
beneath
the
mighty
Blow
.
Nor
I
alone
—
for
through
the
spacious
Ball
,
With
me
will
Numbers
of
all
Ages
fall
:
And
the
same
Day
that
Mira
yields
her
Breath
,
Thousands
may
enter
through
the
Gates
of
Death
.