Lady Marys Class

 

Here is a good intro to LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU and her poems (from which I pilfered this pic): http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/lady-mary-wortley-montagu

From Zack for Monday's class:
Here are my three questions for Monday's class, along with some of the LMWM poems I intended for my classmates to read:

The Reasons that Induced Dr. S. to write a Poem called "The Lady's Dressing Room"

http://www.nku.edu/~rkdrury/422/e_texts/montagu_reasons.html

And here is her response (rejection of love-making) to epitaphs Pope sent her regarding the couple killed at Stanton Harcourt which he intended flirtatiously:

Epitath:

Here lies John Hewett and Sarah Drew;
Perhaps you’ll say, what’s that to you?
Believe me friend, much may be said,
On this poor couple that are dead.
On Sunday next they should have married;
But see how oddly things are carried!
On Thursday last it rained and lighten’d,
These tender lovers, sadly frighten’d,
Shelter’d beneath the cocking hay,
In hopes to pass the time away;
But the bold thunder found them out
(Commission’d for that end no doubt);
And seizing on their trembling breath
Consign’d them to the shades of death.
Who knows if ‘twas not kindly done?
For had they seen the next year’s sun,
A beaten wife and cuckold swain
Had jointly curs’d the marriage chain;
Now they are happy in their doom,
For Pope has writ upon their tomb.

And now the questions!

1. Both of the Lady Marys engage in nascent versions of feminism (and, in Lady Mary Wortley Montagu's case, post-colonialism as well).  How do these female authors both foreshadow the theoretical approaches that we are so familiar with now and simultaneously reject them?

2. Lady Mary Wortley Montagu's "Eclogues" are yet another example of 18th Century satire.  How do these poems, widely believed to have been co-written by both Pope and Gay in certain places, differ from and complement the satires we have been studying for the past few weeks?

3. We find ourselves again in exile.  Lady Mary Wortley Montagu and her husband, though on official duty, were nonetheless separated from their home country for an extended period of time.  Additionally, LMWM's eccentricities (as well as her smallpox-altered appearance) often kept on the outside of "proper" English society.  Little is known about Lady Mary Chudleigh's life, but many biographers believe that her marriage was a profoundly unhappy one.  Whether that is true or not, it is clear (for obvious reasons) that both of the Lady Marys were excluded from the domain of writing in which Pope, Swift, Dryden, and our other male authors were allowed to pass so freely.  How do these varied exilic positions affect the Lady Marys' works?


Here is the link to Jack Lynch's online edition of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu's Letters (if you look in ECCO you will see the many different 18C editions there). 
http://andromeda.rutgers.edu/~jlynch/Texts/montagu-letters.html
I think how we will manage this is you can each skim the letters and choose one or two that really appeal to you and be prepared in class to say why.  As the class draws nearer, Zack, who is giving the presentation, or I may have suggestions about which ones to look more closely at.

And here is  commentary from the Norton Anthology.  We might look at these letters:
http://www.wwnorton.com/college/english/nael/18century/topic_4/montagu.htm

Smallpox vaccination:
 http://www.nlm.nih.gov/exhibition/smallpox/sp_variolation.html

Variolation

In Asia, practitioners developed the technique of variolation—the deliberate infection with smallpox. Dried smallpox scabs were blown into the nose of an individual who then contracted a mild form of the disease. Upon recovery, the individual was immune to smallpox. Between 1% to 2% of those variolated died as compared to 30% who died when they contracted the disease naturally.
By 1700, variolation had spread to Africa, India and the Ottoman Empire.

In contrast to Asians and Africans who inoculated by blowing dried smallpox scabs up the nose, Europeans and their American cousins tended to innoculate through a puncture in the skin.
In 1717, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, the wife of the British ambassador, learned about variolation in Constantinople. In 1721, at the urging of Montagu and the Princess of Wales, several prisoners and abandoned children were inoculated by having smallpox inserted under the skin. Several months later, the children and prisoners were deliberately exposed to smallpox. When none contracted the disease, the procedure was deemed safe and members of the royal family were inoculated. The procedure then became fashionable in Europe.
African slaves introduced variolation into America. In Massachusetts, Cotton Mather learned about the practice from his slave, Onesimus. Mather publicized the technique and the procedure was first tried during a smallpox epidemic in Boston in 1721.
Variolation was never risk-free. Not only could the patient die from the procedure but the mild form of the disease which the patient contracted could spread, causing an epidemic. Victims of variolation could be found at all levels of society; King George III lost a son to the procedure as did many others.

“Every year, thousands undergo this operation, and the French ambassador says pleasantly that they take the smallpox here by way of diversion as they do the waters in other countries.”
— Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, 1774.

Colonial Manuscript.

THE LADY'S RESOLVE.

Written on a window, soon after her marriage, 1713.

Whilst thirst of praise and vain desire of fame,

In every age is every woman's aim;

With courtship pleas'd, of silly toasters proud,

Fond of a train, and happy in a crowd;

On each proud fop bestowing some kind glance,

Each conquest owing to some loose advance;

While vain coquets affect to be pursued,

And think they're virtuous, if not grossly lewd:

Let this great maxim be my virtue's guide;

In part she is to blame that has been try'd--

He comes too near, that comes to be deny'd.

TOWN ECLOGUES

Written in the Year 1715.

MONDAY.

ROXANA; OR, THE DRAWING-ROOM.

ROxana, from the court retiring late,

Sigh'd her soft sorrows at St. James's gate.

Such heavy thoughts lay brooding in her breast,

Not her own chairmen with more weight oppress'd;

They groan the cruel load they're doom'd to bear;
She in these gentle sounds express'd her care.

"Was it for this that I these roses wear?

For this new-set the jewels for my hair?

Ah! Princess! with what zeal have I pursued!

Almost forgot the duty of a prude.

Thinking I never could attend too soon,

I've miss'd my prayers, to get me dress'd by noon.

For thee, ah! what for thee did I resign?

My pleasures, passions, all that e'er was mine.

I sacrific'd both modesty and ease,

Left operas and went to filthy plays;

Double-entendres shock my tender ear;

Yet even this for thee I choose to bear.

In glowing youth, when nature bids be gay,

And every joy of life before me lay,

By honor prompted, and by pride restrain'd,

The pleasures of the young my soul disdain'd:

Sermons I sought, and with a mien severe

Censur'd my neighbours, and said daily pray'r.

"Alas! how chang'd--with the same sermon-mien

that once I pray'd, the What d'ye call't I've seen.

Ah! cruel Princess, for thy sake I've lost

That reputation which so dear had cost:

I, who avoided every public place,

When bloom and beauty bade me show my face,

Now near thee constant every night abide

With never-failing duty by thy side;

Myself and daughters standing on a row,

To all the foreigners a goodly show!

Oft had your drawing-room been sadly thin,

And merchant's wives close by the chair been seen,

Had I not amply fill'd the empty space,

And sav'd your highness from the dire disgrace.

"Yet Coquetilla's artifice prevails,

When all my merit and my duty fails;

That Coquetilla, whose deluding airs

Corrupt our virgins, still our youth ensnares;

So sunk her character, so lost her fame

Scarce visited before your highness came:

Yet for the bed-chamber 'tis her you choose,

When zeal and fame and virtue you refuse.

Ah! worthy choice! not one of all your train

Whom censure blasts not, and dishonours stain!
Let the nice hind now suckle dirty pigs,

And the proud pea-hen hatch the cuckoo's eggs!

Let Iris leave her paint and own her age,

And grave Suffolka wed a giddy page!

A greater miracle is daily view'd,

A virtuous Princess, with a court so lewd.

"I know thee, court! with all thy treach'rous wiles,

Thy false caresses and undoing smiles!

Ah! Princess, learn'd in all the courtly arts,

To cheat our hopes, and yet to gain our hearts!

"Large lovely bribes are the great statesman's aim;

And the neglected patriot follows fame.

The Prince is ogled; some the King pursue;

But your Roxana only follows you.

Despis'd Roxana, cease, and try to find

Some other, since the Princess proves unkind:

Perhaps it is not hard to find at court,

If not a greater, a more firm support."

THURSDAY.--THE BASSETTE-TABLE.

SMILINDA AND CARDELIA.

CARDELIA.

The Bassette-Table spread, the Tallier  come;

Why stays Smilinda in her dressing-room?

Rise, pensive nymph! the Tallier waits for you.

SMILINDA.

Ah! madam, since my Sharper  is untrue,

I joyless make my once ador'd alpiu.

I joyless saw him stand behind Ombrelia's chair,

And whisper with that soft deluding air,

And those feign'd sighs, which cheat the list'ning fair.

CARDELIA.

Is this the cause of your romantic strains?

A mightier grief my heavier heart sustains.

As you by Love, so I by Fortune cross'd,

In one bad deal three septlevas{43} have lost.

SMILINDA.

Is that the grief which you compare with mine!

With ease the smiles of Fortune I resign:

Would all my gold in one bad deal were gone;

Were lovely Sharper mine, and mine alone!

CARDELIA.

A lover lost is but a common care:

And prudent nymphs against that charge prepare.

The knave of clubs thrice lost: oh! who could guess

This fatal stroke! this unforeseen distress?
SMILINDA.

See Betty Loveit, very a propos,

She all the care of love and play does know;

Dear Betty shall th'important point decide;

Betty, who oft the pain of each has try'd;

Impartial she shall say who suffers most,

By cards' ill usage, or by lovers lost.

LOVEIT.

Tell, tell your griefs; attentive will I stay,

Though time is precious, and I want some tea.

CARDELIA.

Behold this equipage by Mathers wrought,

With fifty guineas (a great penn'orth!) bought.

See on the toothpick, Mars and Cupid strive;

And both the struggling figures seem alive.

Upon the bottom shines the queen's bright face;

A myrtle foliage round the thimble case.

Jove, jove himself, does on the scissors shine;

The metal, and the workmanship divine!

SMILINDA.

This snuff-box, once the pledge of Sharper's love,

When rival beauties for the present strove;

At Corticelli's  he the raffle won;

Then first his passion was in public shown:

Hazardia blush'd, and turn'd her head aside,

A rival's envy (all in vain) to hide.

This snuff-box--on the hinge see brilliants shine:

This snuff-box will I stake, the prize is mine.

CARDELIA.

Alas! far lesser losses than I bear,

Have made a soldier sigh, a lover swear,

And oh! what makes the disappointment hard,

'Twas my own lord that drew the fatal card
In complaisance I took the queen he gave,

Though my own secret wish was for the knave.

The knave won Sonica which I had chose;

And the next pull my septleva I lose.

SMILINDA.

But ah! what aggravates the killing smart,

The cruel thought that stabs me to the heart;

This curs'd Ombrelia, this undoing fair,

By whose vile arts this heavy grief I bear;

She, at whose name I shed these spiteful tears,

She owes to me the very charms she wears:

An awkward thing when first she came to town;

Her shape unfashion'd, and her face unknown:

She was my friend, I taught her first to spread

Upon her sallow cheeks enlivening red.

I introduc'd her to the park and plays;

And by my int'rest Cosins made her stays.

Ungrateful wretch! with mimic airs grown pert,

She dares to steal my favourite lover's heart.

CARDELIA.

Wretch that I was! how often have I swore,

When Winnall tallied, I would punt no more?

I know the bite, yet to my ruin run;

And see the folly which I cannot shun.

SMILINDA.

How many minds have Sharper's vows deceiv'd!

How many curs'd the moment they believ'd!

Yet his known falsehoods could no warning prove;

Ah! what is warning to a maid in love?

CARDELIA.

But of what marble must that breast be form'd,

To gaze on Bassette, and remain unwarm'd?

When kings, queens, knaves, are set in decent rank,

Expos'd in glorious heaps the tempting bank,
Guineas, half-guineas, all the shining train;

The winner's pleasure, and the loser's pain:

In bright confusion open rouleaus{48} lie,

They strike the soul, and glitter in the eye.

Fir'd by the sight, all reason I disdain:

My passions rise, and will not bear the rein.

Look upon Bassette, you who reason boast;

And see if reason must not there be lost.

SMILINDA.

What more than marble must that heart compose,

Can hearken coldly to my Sharper's vows?

Then when he trembles, when his blushes rise,

When awful love seems melting in his eyes,

With eager beats his Mechlin{49} cravat moves:

He loves, I whisper to myself, he loves!

Such unfeign'd passion in his looks appears,

I lose all mem'ry of my former fears:

My panting heart confesses all his charms,

I yield at once, and sink into his arms:

Think of that moment, you who prudence boast,

For such a moment, prudence well were lost.

CARDELIA.

At the Groom-Porter's, batter'd bullies play,

Some dukes{50} at Marybone bowl time away.

But who the bowl, or rattling dice, compares

To Bassette's heavenly joys and pleasing cares?

SMILINDA.

Soft Simplicetta doats upon a beau;

Prudina likes a man, and laughs at show.

Their several graces in my Sharper meet;

Strong as the footman, as the master sweet.

LOVEIT.

Cease your contention, which has been too long

I grow impatient, and the tea too strong.
Attend, and yield to what I now decide;

The equipage shall grace Smilinda's side:

The snuff-box to Cardelia I decree:

Now leave complaining, and begin your tea.

FRIDAY.--THE TOILETTE.

LYDIA.

Now twenty springs had cloth'd the Park with green,

Since Lydia knew the blossom of fifteen;

No lovers now her morning hours molest,

And catch her at her toilet half undrest.

The thund'ring knocker wakes the street no more,

Nor chairs, nor coaches, crowd the silent door;

Now at the window all her mornings pass,

Or at the dumb devotion of her glass:

Reclin'd upon her arm she pensive sate,

And curs'd th' inconstancy of man too late.

"O youth! O spring of life, for ever lost!

No more my name shall reign the fav'rite toast:

On glass no more the diamond grave my name,

And lines mis-spelt record my lover's flame:

Nor shall side-boxes watch my wand'ring eyes,

And, as they catch the glance, in rows arise

With humble bows; nor white-glov'd beaux encroach

In crowds behind, to guard me to my coach.

"What shall I do to spend the hateful day?

At chapel shall I wear the morn away?

Who there appears at these unmodish hours,

But ancient matrons with their frizzled tow'rs,

And gray religious maids? My presence there,

Amidst that sober train, would own despair?

Nor am I yet so old, nor is my glance

As yet fix'd wholly on devotion's trance.

Strait then I'll dress, and take my wonted range

Through India's shops, to Motteux's, or the Change,

Where the tall jar erects its stately pride,

With antic shapes in China's azure dy'd;

There careless lies a rich brocade unroll'd,

Here shines a cabinet with burnish'd gold.

But then alas! I must be forc'd to pay,
And bring no penn'orth, not a fan away!

"How am I curs'd, unhappy and forlorn!

My lover's triumph, and my sex's scorn!

False is the pompous grief of youthful heirs;

False are the loose coquet's inveigling airs;

False is the crafty courtier's plighted word;

False are the dice when gamesters stamp the board;

False is the sprightly widow's public tear;

Yet these to Damon's oaths are all sincere.

"For what young flirt, base man, am I abus'd?

To please your wife am I unkindly us'd?

'Tis true her face may boast the peach's bloom;

But does her nearer whisper breathe perfume?

I own her taper shape is form'd to please;

But don't you see her unconfin'd by stays?

She doubly to fifteen may claim pretence;

Alike we read it in her face and sense.

Insipid, servile thing! whom I disdain;

Her phlegm can best support the marriage chain.

Damon is practis'd in the modish life,

Can hate, and yet be civil to his wife:

He games, he drinks, he swears, he fights, he roves;

Yet Cloe can believe he fondly loves.

Mistress and wife by turns supply his need;

A miss for pleasure, and a wife for breed.

Powder'd with diamonds, free from spleen or care,

She can a sullen husband's humour bear;

Her credulous friendship and her stupid ease,

Have often been my jest in happier days;

How Chloe boasts and triumphs in my pains!

To her he's faithful; 'tis to me he feigns.

Am I that stupid thing{57} to bear neglect,

And force a smile, not daring to suspect?

No, perjur'd man! a wife may be content;

But you shall find a mistress can resent."

Thus love-sick Lydia rav'd; her maid appears,

And in her faithful hand the band-box bears

(The cestus, that reform'd inconstant Jove,

Not better fill'd with what allur'd to love);

"How well this ribbon's gloss becomes your face!"

She cries in rapture; "then so sweet a lace!

How charmingly you look! so bright! so fair!

"Tis to your eyes the head-dress owes its air!"
Straight Lydia smiled; the comb adjusts her locks;

And at the play-house Harry keeps her box.

SATURDAY.--THE SMALL-POX.

FLAVIA

The wretched Flavia, on her couch reclined,

Thus breath'd the anguish of a wounded mind,

A glass revers'd in her right hand she bore,

For now she shunn'd the face she sought before.

"How am I chang'd! alas! how am I grown

A frightful spectre to myself unknown!

Where's my complexion? where my radiant bloom,

That promis'd happiness for years to come?

Then with what pleasure I this face survey'd!

To look once more, my visits oft delay'd!

Charm'd with the view, a fresher red would rise,

And a new life shot sparkling from my eyes!

"Ah! faithless glass, my wonted bloom restore;

Alas! I rave, that bloom is now no more!

The greatest good the gods on men bestow,

Ev'n youth itself, to me is useless now.

There was a time (oh! that I could forget!)

When opera-tickets pour'd before my feet;

And at the Ring, where brightest beauties shine,

The earliest cherries of the spring were mine.

Witness, O Lilly; and thou, Motteux, tell,

How much japan these eyes have made ye sell.

With what contempt ye saw me oft despise

The humble offer of the raffled prize;

For at each raffle still each prize I bore,

With scorn rejected, or with triumph wore!

Now beauty's fled, and presents are no more!

"For me the patriot has the House forsook,

And left debates to catch a passing look:

For me the soldier has soft verses writ:

For me the beau has aim'd to be a wit.

For me the wit to nonsense was betray'd;

The gamester has for me his dun delay'd,

And overseen the card he would have play'd.

The bold and haughty, by success made vain,
Aw'd by my eyes have trembled to complain:

The bashful 'squire, touch'd by a wish unknown,

Has dar'd to speak with spirit not his own:

Fir'd by one wish, all did alike adore;

Now beauty's fled, and lovers are no more!

"As round the room I turn my weeping eyes,

New unaffected scenes of sorrow rise.

Far from my sight that killing picture bear,

The face disfigure, and the canvas tear:

That picture which with pride I us'd to show,

The lost resemblance that upbraids me now.

And thou, my toilette! where I oft have sat,

While hours unheeded pass'd in deep debate

How curls should fall, or where a patch to place;

If blue on scarlet best became my face:

Now on some happier nymph your aid bestow;

On fairer heads, ye useless jewels, glow!

No borrow'd lustre can my charms restore;

Beauty is fled, and dress is now no more!

"Ye meaner beauties, I permit ye shine;

Go, triumph in the hearts that once were mine:

But, 'midst your triumphs with confusion know,

'Tis to my ruin all your charms ye owe.

Would pitying Heav'n restore my wonted mien,

Ye still might move unthought of and unseen:

But oh, how vain, how wretched is the boast

Of beauty faded, and of empire lost!

What now is left but, weeping, to deplore

My beauty fled, and empire now no more!

"Ye cruel chemists, what withheld your aid?

Could no pomatum save a trembling maid?

How false and trifling is that art ye boast!

No art can give me back my beauty lost.

In tears, surrounded by my friends, I lay

Mask'd o'er, and trembled at the sight of day;

Mirmillio came my fortune to deplore

(A golden-headed cane well carv'd he bore),

Cordials, he cried, my spirits must restore!

Beauty is fled, and spirit is no more!

"Galen, the grave officious Squirt was there.

With fruitless grief and unavailing care;

Machaon too, the great Machaon, known

By his red cloak and his superior frown;
And why, he cried, this grief and this despair?

You shall again be well, again be fair;

Believe my oath (with that an oath he swore);

False was his oath; my beauty was no more!

"Cease, hapless maid, no more thy tale pursue,

Forsake mankind, and bid the world adieu!

Monarchs and beauties rule with equal sway:

All strive to serve, and glory to obey:

Alike unpitied when depos'd they grow,

Men mock the idol of their former vow.

"Adieu! ye parks--in some obscure recess,

Where gentle streams will weep at my distress,

Where no false friend will in my grief take part,

And mourn my ruin with a joyful heart;

There let me live in some deserted place,

There hide in shades this lost inglorious face.

Plays, operas, circles, I no more must view!

My toilette, patches, all the world adieu!"

VERSES,

Written in the Chiosk of the British Palace, at

Pera, overlooking the city of Constantinople, Dec. 26, 1718 [1717].

Give me, great God! said I, a little farm,

In summer shady, and in winter warm;

Where a clear spring gives birth to murm'ring brooks,

By nature gliding down the mossy rocks.

Not artfully by leaden pipes convey'd,

Or greatly falling in a forc'd cascade,

Pure and unsullied winding through the shade.

All bounteous Heaven has added to my prayer,

A softer climate and a purer air.

Our frozen Isle now chilling winter binds,

Deform'd by rains, and rough with blasting winds;

The wither'd woods grow white with hoary frost,

By driving storms their verdant beauty lost;

The trembling birds their leafless covert shun,

And seek in distant climes a warmer sun:

The water-nymphs their silent urns deplore,

Ev'n Thames, benumb'd, 's a river now no more:

The barren meads no longer yield delight,
By glist'ning snows made painful to the sight

. Here summer reigns with one eternal smile,

Succeeding harvests bless the happy soil;

Fair fertile fields, to whom indulgent Heaven

Has ev'ry charm of ev'ry season given.

No killing cold deforms the beauteous year,

The springing flowers no coming winter fear.

But as the parent rose decays and dies,

The infant buds with brighter colours rise,

And with fresh sweets the mother's scent suppli

es. Near them the violet grows with odours blest,

And blooms in more than Tyrian purple drest;

The rich jonquils their golden beams display,

And shine in glory's emulating day;

The peaceful groves their verdant leaves retain,

The streams still murmur undefil'd with rain,

And tow'ring greens adorn the fruitful plain.

The warbling kind uninterrupted sing,

Warm'd with enjoyments of perpetual spring.

Here, at my window, I at once survey

The crowded city and resounding sea;

In distant views the Asian mountains rise,

And lose their snowy summits in the skies;

Above these mountains proud Olympus tow'rs,

The parliamental seat of heavenly pow'rs!

New to the sight my ravish'd eyes admire

Each gilded crescent and each antique spire,

The marble mosques, beneath whose ample domes

Fierce warlike sultans sleep in peaceful tombs;

Those lofty structures, once the Christian's boast,

Their names, their beauty, and their honours lost;

Those altars bright with gold and sculpture grac'd,

By barb'rous zeal of savage foes defac'd;

Soph'a alone, her ancient name retains,

Though th' unbeliever now her shrine profanes;

Where holy saints have died in sacred cells,

Where monarchs pray'd, the frantic dervise dwells.

How art thou fall'n, imperial city, low!

Where are thy hopes of Roman glory now?

Where are thy palaces by prelates rais'd?

Where Grecian artists all their skill display'd,

Before the happy sciences decay'd;

So vast, that youthful kings might here reside,
So splendid, to content a patriarch's pride;

Convents where emperors profess'd of old,

The labour'd pillars that their triumphs told;

Vain monuments of them that once were great,

Sunk undistinguis'd by one common fate;

One little spot the tenure small contains,

Of Greek nobility the poor remains;

Where other Helens, with like powerful charms,

Had once engag'd the warring world in arms;

Those names which royal ancestors can boast,

In mean mechanic arts obscurely lost;

Those eyes a second Homer might inspire,

Fix'd at the loom, destroy their useless fire:

Griev'd at a view, which struck upon my mind

The short-liv'd vanity of humankind.

In gaudy objects I indulge my sight,

And turn where Eastern pomp gives gay delight;

See the vast train in various habits drest,

By the bright scimitar and sable vest

The proud vizier distinguish'd o'er the rest!

Six slaves in gay attire his bridle hold,

His bridle rich with gems, and stirrups gold;

His snowy steed adorn'd with costly pride,

Whole troops of soldiers mounted by his side,

These top the plumy crest Arabian coursers guide.

With artful duty all decline their eyes,

No bellowing shouts of noisy crowds arise;

Silence, in solemn state, the march attends,

Till at the dread divan the slow procession ends.

Yet not these prospects all profusely gay,

The gilded navy that adorns the sea,

The rising city in confusion fair,

Magnificently form'd, irregular,

Where woods and palaces at once surprise,

Gardens on gardens, domes on domes arise,

And endless beauties tire the wand'ring eyes,

So soothe my wishes, or so charm my mind,

As this retreat secure from humankind.

No knave's successful craft does spleen excite,

No coxcomb's tawdry splendour shocks my sight,

No mob-alarm awakes my female fear,

No praise my mind, nor envy hurts my ear,

Ev'n fame itself can hardly reach me here;
Impertinence, with all her tattling train,

Fair-sounding flattery's delicious bane;

Censorious folly, noisy party rage,

The thousand tongues with which she must engage

Who dare have virtue in a vicious age.

LADY MARY CHUDLEIGH (1656-1710)

Some biography: http://www.poemhunter.com/lady-mary-chudleigh/biography/

 Zach's choice for his presentation:

Chudleigh's "The Ladies Defence," which is available in its entirety online here: http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/chudleigh/defence/defence.html

Other: 

Song
Why Damon, why, why, why so pressing?
The Heart you beg's not worth possessing:
Each Look, each Word, each Smile's affected,
And inward Charms are quite neglected:
Then scorn her, scorn her, foolish Swain,
And sigh no more, no more in vain.

Beauty's worthless, fading, flying;
Who would for Trifles think of dying?
Who for a Face, a Shape, wou'd languish,
And tell the Brooks, and Groves his Anguish,
Till she, till she thinks fit to prize him,
And all, and all beside despise him?

Fix, fix your Thoughts on what's inviting,
On what will never bear the slighting:
Wit and Virtue claim your Duty,
They're much more worth that Gold and Beauty:
To them, to them, your Heart resign,
And you'll no more, no more repine.

The Wish
Would but indulgent Fortune send
To me a kind, and faithful Friend,
One who to Virtue's Laws is true,
And does her nicest Rules pursue;
One Pious, Lib'ral, Just and Brave,
And to his Passions not a Slave;
Who full of Honour, void of Pride,
Will freely praise, and freely chide;
But not indulge the smallest Fault,
Nor entertain one slighting Thought:
Who still the same will ever prove,
Will still instruct ans still will love:
In whom I safely may confide,
And with him all my Cares divide:
Who has a large capacious Mind,
Join'd with a Knowledge unconfin'd:
A Reason bright, a Judgement true,
A Wit both quick, and solid too:
Who can of all things talk with Ease,
And whose Converse will ever please:
Who charm'd with Wit, and inward Graces,
Despises Fools with tempting Faces;
And still a beauteous Mind does prize
Above the most enchanting Eyes:
I would not envy Queens their State,
Nor once desire a happier Fate.

To the Ladies.
WIFE and servant are the same,
But only differ in the name :
For when that fatal knot is ty'd,
Which nothing, nothing can divide :
When she the word obey has said,
And man by law supreme has made,
Then all that's kind is laid aside,
And nothing left but state and pride :
Fierce as an eastern prince he grows,
And all his innate rigour shows :
Then but to look, to laugh, or speak,
Will the nuptial contract break.
Like mutes, she signs alone must make,
And never any freedom take :
But still be govern'd by a nod,
And fear her husband as a God :
Him still must serve, him still obey,
And nothing act, and nothing say,
But what her haughty lord thinks fit,
Who with the power, has all the wit.
Then shun, oh ! shun that wretched state,
And all the fawning flatt'rers hate :
Value yourselves, and men despise :
You must be proud, if you'll be wise.