AN ANSWER to a LOVE-LETTER. Lady Mary Wortley Montagu (née Pierrepont) Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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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 K104099.004 Dodsley, Robert, 1703-1764. A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes. By Several Hands. Vol. IV. London printed by J. Hughs, for R. and J. Dodsley 1763 [1st ed. 1758] pp. 193-194. 6v.: music; 8⁰.

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AN ANSWER to a LOVE-LETTER . By the Same . IS it to me , this sad lamenting strain : Are heaven's choicest gifts bestow'd in vain ? A plenteous fortune , and a beauteous bride , Your love rewarded , gratify'd your pride : Yet leaving her — 'tis me that you pursue Without one single charm , but being new . How vile is man ! how I detest their ways Of artful falshood , and designing praise ! Tasteless , an easy happiness you slight , Ruin your joy , and mischief your delight . Why should poor pug ( the mimic of your kind ) Wear a rough chain , and be to box confin'd ? Some cup , perhaps , he breaks , or tears a fan , — While roves unpunish'd the destroyer , man . Not bound by vows , and unrestrain'd by shame , In sport you break the heart , and rend the fame . Nor that your art can be successful here , Th' already plunder'd need no robber fear : Nor sighs , nor charms , nor flatteries can move , Too well secur'd against a second love . Once , and but once , that devil charm'd my mind ; To reason deaf , to observation blind ; I idly hop'd ( what cannot love persuade ! ) My fondness equal'd , and my love repay'd ; Slow to distrust , and willing to believe , Long hush'd my doubts , and did myself deceive : But oh ! too soon — this tale would ever last ; Sleep , sleep , my wrongs , and let me think 'em past . For you , who mourn with counterfeited grief , And ask so boldly like a begging thief , May soon some other nymph inflict the pain , You know so well with cruel art to feign . Tho' long you sported have with Cupid's dart , You may see eyes , and you may feel a heart . So the brisk wits , who stop the evening coach , Laugh at the fear that follows their approach ; With idle mirth , and haughty scorn despise The passenger's pale cheek , and staring eyes : But seiz'd by Justice , find a fright no jest , And all the terror doubled in their breast .