EPILOGUE To MARY, Queen of SCOTS. Design'd to be spoken by Mrs. OLDFIELD. Lady Mary Wortley Montagu (née Pierrepont) 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. T131163 K104099.001 Dodsley, Robert, 1703-1764. A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes. By Several Hands. Vol. I. London printed by J. Hughs, for R. and J. Dodsley 1763 [1st ed. 1758] pp. 112-113. 6v.: music; 8⁰.

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EPILOGUE To MARY , Queen of SCOTS . Design'd to be spoken by Mrs. OLDFIELD . By the Same . WHAT cou'd 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'ters 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 does ensue . If you will love , love like Eliza then ; Love for amusement , like those traytors men . Think that the pastime of a leisure hour She favour'd oft — but never shar'd her pow'r . The traveller by desart wolves pursu'd , If by his art the savage foe's subdu'd , The world will still the noble act applaud , Tho' 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 with-held 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 by 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 .