An EPISTLE to Lady BOWYER. Mary Jones 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. T115196 Jones, Mary, d. 1778. Miscellanies in Prose and Verse. By Mary Jones. Oxford Printed; and delivered by Mr. Dodsley in Pall-Mall, Mr. Clements in Oxford, and Mr. Frederick in Bath, MDCCL. 1750 pp. 1-7. vi,[1],xlv,[1],405p.

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An EPISTLE to Lady BOWYER . How much of paper's spoil'd what floods of ink ! And yet how few , how very few can think ! The knack of writing is an easy trade ; But to think well requires — at least a Head . Once in an age , one Genius may arise , With wit well-cultur'd , and with learning wise . Like some tall oak , behold his branches shoot ! No tender scions springing at the root . Whilst lofty Pope erects his laurell'd head , No lays , like mine , can live beneath his shade . Nothing but weeds , and moss , and shrubs are found . Cut , cut them down , why cumber they the ground ? And yet you'd have me write ! — For what ? for whom ? To curl a Fav'rite in a dressing-room ? To mend a candle when the snuff's too short ? Or save rappee for chamber-maids at Court ? Glorious ambition ! noble thirst of same ! — No , but you'd have me write — to get a name . Alas ! I'd live unknown , unenvy'd too ; 'Tis more than Pope , with all his wit can do . 'Tis more than You , with wit and beauty join'd , A pleasing from , and a discerning mind . The world and I are no such cordial friends ; I have my purpose , they their various ends . I say my pray'rs , and lead a sober life , Nor laugh at Cornus , or at Cornus ' wife . What's fame to me , who pray , and pay my rent ? I my friends know me honest , I'm content . Well , but the joy to see my works in print ! My self too pictur'd in a Mezzo-Tint ! The Preface done , the Dedication fram'd , With lies enough to make a Lord asham'd ! Thus I step forth ; an Auth'ress in some sort . My Patron's name ? " O choose some Lord at Court . " One that has money which he does not use , One you may flatter much , that is , abuse . For if you're nice , and cannot change your note , Regardless of the trimm'd , or untrimm'd coat ; Believe me , friend , you'll ne'er beworth a groat . " Well then , to cut this mighty matter short , I've neither friend , nor interest at Court . Quite from St. James's to thy stairs , Whitehall , I hardly know a creature , great or small , Except one Maid of Honour , Honourable Miss Lovelace . worth 'em all . I have no bus'ness there . Let those attend The courtly Levee , or the courtly Friend , Who more than fate allows them , dare to spend . Or those whose avarice , with much , craves more , The pension'd Beggar , or the titled Poor . These are the thriving Breed , the tiny Great ! Slaves ! wretched Slaves ! the Journeymen of State ! Philosophers ! who calmly bear disgrace , Patriots ! who sell their country for a place . Shall I for these disturb my brains with rhyme ? For these , like Bavius creep , or Glencus climb ? Shall I go late to rest , and early rise , To be the very creature I despise ? With face unmov'd , my poem in my hand , Cringe to the porter , with the footman stand ? Perhaps my lady's maid , if not too proud , Will stoop , you'll say , to wink me from the croud . Will entertain me , till his lordship's drest , With what my lady eats , and how she rests : How much she gave for such a birth-day gown , And how she trampt to ev'ry shop in town . Sick at the news , impatient for my lord , I'm forc'd to hear , nay smile at ev'ry word . Tom raps at last , — " His lordship begs to know Your name ? your bus'ness ? " — Sir , I'm not a foe . I come to charm his lordship's list'ning ears With verses , soft as music of the spheres . " Verses ! — Alas ! his lordship seldom reads : Pedants indeed with learning stuff their heads ; But my good lord , as all the world can tell , Reads not ev'n tradesmen's bills , and scorns to spell . But trust your lays with me . Some things I'veread , Was born a poet , tho' no poet bred : And if I find they'll bear my nicer view , I'll recommend your poetry — and you . " Shock'd at his civil impudence , I start , Pocket my poem , and in haste depart ; Resolv'd no more to offer up my wit , Where footmen in the seat of critics sit . Is there a Lord Right Hon. Nevil Lord Lovelace , who dy'd soon after , in the 28 th year of his age . whose great unspotted soul , Not places , pensions , ribbons can control ; Unlac'd , unpowder'd , almost unobserv'd , Eats not on silver , while his train are starv'd ; Who tho' to nobles , or to kings ally'd , Dares walk on foot , while slaves in coaches ride ; With merit humble , and with greatness free , Has bow'd to Freeman , and has din'd with Me ; Who bred in foreign courts , and early known , Has yet to learn the cunning of his own ; To titles born , yet heir to no estate , And , harder still , to honest to be great ; If such an one there be , well-bred , polite ? To Him I'll dedicate , for Him I'll write . Peace to the rest . I can be no man's slave ; I ask for nothing , tho' I nothing have . By Fortune humbled , yet not sunk so low To shame a friend , or fear to meet a foe . Meanness , in ribbons or in rags , I hate ; And have not learnt to flatter , ev'n the Great . Few friends I ask , and those who love me well ; What more remains , these artless lines shall tell . Of honest parents , not of great , I came ; Not known to fortune , quite unknown to fame . Frugal and plain , at no man's cost they eat , Nor knew a baker's , or a butcher's debt . O be their precepts ever in my eye ! For one has learnt to live , and one to die . Long may her widow'd age by heav'n be lent Among my blessings ! and I'm well content . I ask no more , but in some calm retreat , To sleep in quiet , and in quiet eat . No noisy slaves attending round my room ; My viands wholesome , and my waiters dumb . No orphans cheated , and no widow's curse , No houshold lord , for better or for worse . No monstrous sums to tempt my soul to sin , But just enough to keep me plain , and clean . And if sometimes , to smooth the rugged way , Charlot should smile , or You approve my lay , Enough for me . I cannot put my trust In lords ; smile lies , eat toads , or lick the dust . Fortune her favours much too dear may hold : An honest heart is worth its weight in gold .