THE MODERN FINE LADY. Soame Jenyns Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
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Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T131163 K104099.003 Dodsley, Robert, 1703-1764. A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes. By Several Hands. Vol. III. London printed by J. Hughs, for R. and J. Dodsley 1763 [1st ed. 1758] pp. 171-175. 6v.: music; 8⁰.

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THE MODERN FINE LADY . — Miseri quibus Intentata nites . HOR. SKILL'D in each art , that can adorn the fair , The spritely dance , the soft Italian air , The toss of quality , and high-bred fleer , Now lady Harriot reach'd her fifteenth year . Wing'd with diversions all her moments flew , Each , as it pass'd , presenting something new ; Breakfasts and auctions wear the morn away , Each evening gives an opera , or a play ; Then Brag's eternal joys all night remain , And kindly usher in the morn again . For love no time has she , or inclination , Yet must coquet it for the sake of fashion ; For this she listens to each fop that's near , Th' embroider'd colonel flatters with a sneer , And the cropt ensign nuzzles in her ear . But with most warmth her dress and airs inspire Th' ambitious bosom of the landed 'squire , Who fain would quit plump Dolly's softer charms , For wither'd lean right honourable arms ; He bows with reverence at her sacred shrine , And treats her as if sprung from race divine , Which she returns with insolence and scorn , Nor deigns to smile on a plebeian born . Ere long by friends , by cards , and lovers cross'd , Her fortune , health , and reputation lost ; Her money gone , yet not a tradesman paid , Her fame , yet she still damn'd to be a maid , Her spirits sink , her nerves are so unstrung , She weeps , if but a handsome thief is hung : By mercers , lacemen , mantua-makers press'd , But most for ready cash for play distress'd , Where can she turn ? — the 'squire must all repair , She condescends to listen to his pray'r , And marries him at length in mere despair . But soon th' endearments of a husband cloy , Her soul , her frame incapable of joy : She feels no transports in the bridal bed , Of which so oft sh' has heard , so much has read ; Then vex'd , that she should be condemn'd alone To seek in vain this philosophick stone , To abler tutors she resolves t'apply , A prostitute from curiosity : Hence men of ev'ry sort , and ev'ry size , Impatient for heav'n's cordial drop , she tries ; The fribbling beau , the rough unwieldy clown , The ruddy templar newly on the town , Th' Hibernian captain of gigantic make , The brimful parson , and th' exhausted rake . But still malignant Fate her wish denies , Cards yield superior joys , to cards she flies ; All night from rout to rout her chairmen run , Again she plays , and is again undone . Behold her now in Ruin's frightful jaws ! Bonds , judgments , executions , ope their paws ; Seize jewels , furniture , and plate , nor spare The gilded chariot , or the tossel'd chair , For lonely seat she's forc'd to quit the town , And Tubbs conveys the wretched exile down . Now rumbling o'er the stones of Tyburn-road , Ne'er press'd with a more griev'd or guilty load , She bids adieu to all the well-known streets , And envies ev'ry cinder-wench she meets : And now the dreaded country first appears , With sighs unfeign'd the dying noise she hears Of distant coaches fainter by degrees , Then starts and trembles at the sight of trees . Silent and sullen , like some captive queen , She's drawn along , unwilling to be seen , Until at length appears the ruin'd hall Within the grass-green moat , and ivy'd wall , The doleful prison where for ever she , But not , alas ! her griefs , must bury'd be . Her coach the curate and the tradesmen meet , Great-coated tenants her arrival greet , And boys with stubble bonfires light the street , While bells her ears with tongues discordant grate , Types of the nuptial tyes they celebrate : But no rejoicings can unbend her brow , Nor deigns she to return one aukward bow , But bounces in disdaining once to speak , And wipes the trickling tear from off her cheek . Now see her in the sad decline of life , A peevish mistress , and a sulky wife ; Her nerves unbrac'd , her faded cheek grown pale With many a real , many a fancy'd ail ; Of cards , admirers , equipage bereft ; Her insolence , and title only left ; Severely humbled to her one-horse chair , And the low pastimes of a country fair : Too wretched to endure one lonely day , Too proud one friendly visit to repay , Too indolent to read , too criminal to pray . At length half dead , half mad , and quite confin'd , Shunning , and shunn'd by all of human kind , Ev'n robb'd of the last comfort of her life , Insulting the poor curate's callous wife , Pride , disappointed pride , now stops her breath , And with true scorpion rage she stings herself to death .