EPISTLE, from Fern-Hill. To the same. 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. 133-138. vi,[1],xlv,[1],405p.

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EPISTLE , from Fern-Hill . To the same . Charlot , who my controller is chief , And dearly loves a little mischief , Whene'er I talk of packing up , To all my measures puts a stop : And tho' I plunge from bad to worse , Grown duller than her own dull horse ; Yet out of Complaisance exceeding , Or pure Perverseness , call'd Good-breeding , Will never let me have my way In any thing I do , or say . At table , if I ask for Veal , In complaisance , she gives me Quail . I like your Beer ; 'tis brisk , and fine — " O no ; John , give Miss — some Wine . " And tho' from two to four you stuff , She never thinks you're sick enough : In vain your Hunger's cur'd , and Thirst ; If you'd oblige her , you must burst . Whether in pity , or in ire , Sometimes I'm seated next the fire ; So very close , I pant for breath , In pure Good-manners scorch'd to death . Content I feel her kindness kill , I only beg to make my Will ; But still in all I do , or say , This nusance Breeding's in the way ; O'er which to step I'm much to lazy , And too obliging to be easy . Oft do I cry , I'm almost undone To see our Friends in Brooke-street , London . As seriously the Nymph invites Her slave to stay till moon-shine nights . Lo ! from her lips what Language breaks ! What sweet perswasion , when she speaks ! Her Words so soft ! her Sense so strong ! I only wish — to slit her Tongue . But this , you'll say's to make a clutter , Forsooth ! about one's bread and butter . Why , be it so ; yet I'll aver , That I'm as great a plague to Her ; For well-bred folks are ne'er so civil , As when they wish you at the D—I . So , Charlot , for our mutual ease , Let's e'en shake hands , and part in peace ; To keep me here , is but to teaze ye , To let me go , would be to ease ye . As when ( to speak in phrase more humble ) The Gen'ral's guts begin to grumble , Whate'er the cause that inward stirs , Or pork , or pease , or wind , or worse ; He wisely thinks the more 'tis pent , The more 'twill struggle for a vent : So only begs you'll hold your nose , And gently lifting up his clothes , Away th' imprison'd vapour flies , And mounts a zephyr to the skies . So I ( with rev'rence be it spoken ) Of such a Guest am no bad token ; In Charlot's chamber ever rumbling , Her Pamphlets , and her Papers tumbling , Displacing all the things she places , And , as is usual in such cases , Making her cut most sad wry faces . Yet , spite of all this rebel rout , She's too well bred to let me out , For fear you squeamish Nymphs at Court ( Virgins of not the best report ) Should on the tale malicious dwell , When me you see , or of me tell . O Charlot ! when alone we sit , Laughing at all our own ( no ) wit , You wisely with your Cat at play , I reading Swift , and spilling tea ; How would it please my ravish'd ear , To hear you , from your easy chair , With look serene , and brow uncurl'd , Cry out , A — for all the world ! But You , a slave to too much breeding , And I , a fool , with too much reading , Follow the hive , as bees their drone , Without one purpose of our own : Till tir'd with blund'ring and mistaking , We die sad fools of others making . Stand it recorded on yon post , That both are fools then , to our cost ! The question's only , which is most ? I , that I never yet have shewn One steady purpose of my own ; Or You , with both your blue eyes waking , Run blund'ring on , by Choice mistaking ? — Alas ! we both might sleep contented , Our errors purg'd , our faults repented ; Could you , unmov'd , a squeamish look meet , Or I forget our Friend in Brooke-Street .