RHYMES to the Hon. Miss LOVELACE; now Lady HENRY BEAUCLERK. On her attending Miss CHARLOT CLAYTON In the SMALL-POX. Mary Jones 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. 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. 113-116. vi,[1],xlv,[1],405p.

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RHYMES to the Hon. Miss LOVELACE ; now Lady HENRY BEAUCLERK . On her attending Miss CHARLOT CLAYTON In the SMALL-POX . O Thou ! to whom the Muse is justly dear , In Fancy elegant , in Judgment clear , In whom the Virtues with the Graces blend The faultless Female , and the faithful Friend ; A while suspend the Taste improv'd by Art , And take the Lay spontaneous from the Heart . Fantastic Females ! ye who paint , and prate Of self , or somewhat , or of God knows what ! Who mimic every thing but what ye should , And even Virtue , to be reckon'd good ; Alas ! no varnish can that want supply , No specious talk conceal the acted lye . While you on trifles waste the tedious day , And dress , or dream your useless hours away ; Or worse , indulge the very crime you blame , Plot the dark scandal , or disperse the shame : She on her Friend attends with pious care , Sooths all her griefs , and softens ev'ry fear ; That higher sense indulging , void of art , The virtuous feeling of a gen'rous heart ; And finds self-love attain its noblest end , When it transfers from Self to serve a Friend . How few for Friendship Nature has design'd ! Th' unmelting temper , and th' unmeaning mind , The crafty , selfish , dark , perfidious , see ! O sacred Friendship ! all unworthy Thee . Where then shall she , whose native manners start Beyond the narrow bounds of low-bred art , Whose soul is open , as her purpose clear , Foe to evasion , as of heart sincere ; Not too familiar , nor yet too precise , With humour witty , with politeness wife ; Where find a Friend to bear the equal part ? Say , Charlot , where ? if not within thy heart . Yet Thou , whose worth might sweeter sounds inspire , Indulge these efforts of a youthful lyre : No flatt'ring purpose has the Muse in view , Tho' prompt to praise , wherever Praise is due ; Averse to flatter , cautious to commend , Hardly she sooths the frailties of a Friend . But sick of the insipid senseless train , For Thee she feels the animated strain : O be she sacred to the wife and good ! Nor prostitute her praises to the croud ; With whom less pleas'd than pain'd , her lyre unstrung , Upon a neighb'ring willow useless hung ; Till gentle deeds , and corresponding Love Impell'd the sympathetic strings to move To Nature's harmony ; while artless lays , To Her and Lovelace tun'd , grow music in their praise .