The Reasons That Induced Dr S To Write A Poem Call'D The Lady's Dressing Room
Poem By Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
The Doctor in a clean starch'd band,
His Golden Snuff box in his hand,
With care his Di'mond Ring displays
And Artfull shews its various Rays,
While Grave he stalks down -- -- Street
His dearest Betty -- to meet.
Long had he waited for this Hour,
Nor gain'd Admittance to the Bower,
Had jok'd and punn'd, and swore and writ,
Try'd all his Galantry and Wit,
Had told her oft what part he bore
In Oxford's Schemes in days of yore,
But Bawdy, Politicks nor Satyr
Could move this dull hard hearted Creature.
Jenny her Maid could taste a Rhyme
And greiv'd to see him lose his Time,
Had kindly whisper'd in his Ear,
For twice two pound you enter here,
My lady vows without that Summ
It is in vain you write or come.
The Destin'd Offering now he brought
And in a paradise of thought
With a low Bow approach'd the Dame
Who smileing heard him preach his Flame.
His Gold she takes (such proofes as these
Convince most unbeleiving shees)
And in her trunk rose up to lock it
(Too wise to trust it in her pocket)
And then return'd with Blushing Grace
Expects the Doctor's warm Embrace.
But now this is the proper place
Where morals Stare me in the Face
And for the sake of fine Expression
I'm forc'd to make a small digression.
Alas for wretched Humankind,
With Learning Mad, with wisdom blink!
The Ox thinks he's for Saddle fit
(As long ago Freind Horace writ)
And Men their Talents still mistakeing,
The stutterer fancys his is speaking.
With Admiration oft we see
Hard Features heighten'd by Toupée,
The Beau affects the Politician,
Wit is the citizen's Ambition,
Poor Pope Philosophy displays on
With so much Rhime and little reason,
And thô he argues ne'er so long
That, all is right, his Head is wrong.
None strive to know their proper merit
But strain for Wisdom, Beauty, Spirit,
And lose the Praise that is their due
While they've th'impossible in view.
So have I seen the Injudicious Heir
To add one Window the whole House impair.
Instinct the Hound does better teach
Who never undertook to preach,
The frighted Hare from Dogs does run
But not attempts to bear a Gun.
Here many Noble thoughts occur
But I prolixity abhor,
And will persue th'instructive Tale
To shew the Wise in some things fail.
The Reverend Lover with surprize
Peeps in her Bubbys, and her Eyes,
And kisses both, and trys--and trys.
The Evening in this Hellish Play,
Beside his Guineas thrown away,
Provok'd the Preist to that degree
he swore, the Fault is not in me.
Your damn'd Close stool so near my Nose,
Your Dirty Smock, and Stinking Toes
Would make a Hercules as tame
As any Beau that you can name.
The nymph grown Furious roar'd by God
The blame lyes all in Sixty odd
And scornfull pointing to the door
Cry'd, Fumbler see my Face no more.
With all my Heart I'll go away
But nothing done, I'll nothing pay.
Give back the Money--How, cry'd she,
[I lock'd it in the Trunk stands there
And break it open if you dare.]
Would you palm such a cheat on me!
For poor 4 pound to roar and bellow,
Why sure you want some new Prunella?
[What if your Verses have not sold,
Must therefore I return your Gold?
Perhaps your have no better Luck in
The Knack of Rhyming than of --
I won't give back one single Crown,
To wash your Band, or turn your Gown.]
I'll be reveng'd you saucy Quean
(Replys the disapointed Dean)
I'll so describe your dressing room
The very Irish shall not come.
She answer'd short, I'm glad you'l write,
You'l furnish paper when I shite.