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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=431453" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Friday, The Toilette</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">LYDIA.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now twenty springs had cloth'd the Park with green, <br>Since Lydia knew the blossom of fifteen; <br>No lovers now her morning hours molest, <br>And catch her at her toilet half undrest. <br>The thund'ring knocker wakes the street no more, <br>Nor chairs, nor coaches, crowd the silent door; <br>Now at the window all her mornings pass, <br>Or at the dumb devotion of her glass: <br>Reclin'd upon her arm she pensive sate, <br>And curs'd th' inconstancy of man too late. <br>&quot;O youth! O spring of life, for ever lost! <br>No more my name shall reign the fav'rite toast: <br>On glass no more the diamond grave my name, <br>And lines mis-spelt record my lover's flame: <br>Nor shall side-boxes watch my wand'ring eyes, <br>And, as they catch the glance, in rows arise <br>With humble bows; nor white-glov'd beaux encroach <br>In crowds behind, to guard me to my coach. <br>&quot;What shall I do to spend the hateful day? <br>At chapel shall I wear the morn away? <br>Who there appears at these unmodish hours, <br>But ancient matrons with their frizzled tow'rs, <br>And gray religious maids? My presence there, <br>Amidst that sober train, would own despair? <br>Nor am I yet so old, nor is my glance <br>As yet fix'd wholly on devotion's trance. <br>Strait then I'll dress, and take my wonted range <br>Through India's shops, to Motteux's, or the Change, <br>Where the tall jar erects its stately pride, <br>With antic shapes in China's azure dy'd; <br>There careless lies a rich brocade unroll'd, <br>Here shines a cabinet with burnish'd gold. <br>But then alas! I must be forc'd to pay, <br>And bring no penn'orth, not a fan away! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;How am I curs'd, unhappy and forlorn! <br>My lover's triumph, and my sex's scorn! <br>False is the pompous grief of youthful heirs; <br>False are the loose coquet's inveigling airs; <br>False is the crafty courtier's plighted word; <br>False are the dice when gamesters stamp the board; <br>False is the sprightly widow's public tear; <br>Yet these to Damon's oaths are all sincere. <br>&quot;For what young flirt, base man, am I abus'd? <br>To please your wife am I unkindly us'd? <br>'Tis true her face may boast the peach's bloom; <br>But does her nearer whisper breathe perfume? <br>I own her taper shape is form'd to please; <br>But don't you see her unconfin'd by stays? <br>She doubly to fifteen may claim pretence; <br>Alike we read it in her face and sense. <br>Insipid, servile thing! whom I disdain; <br>Her phlegm can best support the marriage chain. <br>Damon is practis'd in the modish life, <br>Can hate, and yet be civil to his wife: <br>He games, he drinks, he swears, he fights, he roves; <br>Yet Cloe can believe he fondly loves. <br>Mistress and wife by turns supply his need; <br>A miss for pleasure, and a wife for breed. <br>Powder'd with diamonds, free from spleen or care, <br>She can a sullen husband's humour bear; <br>Her credulous friendship and her stupid ease, <br>Have often been my jest in happier days; <br>How Chloe boasts and triumphs in my pains! <br>To her he's faithful; 'tis to me he feigns. <br>Am I that stupid thing to bear neglect, <br>And force a smile, not daring to suspect? <br>No, perjur'd man! a wife may be content; <br>But you shall find a mistress can resent.&quot; <br>Thus love-sick Lydia rav'd; her maid appears, <br>And in her faithful hand the band-box bears <br>The cestus, that reform'd inconstant Jove, <br>Not better fill'd with what allur'd to love); <br>&quot;How well this ribbon's gloss becomes your face!&quot; <br>She cries in rapture; &quot;then so sweet a lace! <br>How charmingly you look! so bright! so fair! <br>&quot;Tis to your eyes the head-dress owes its air!&quot; <br>Straight Lydia smiled; the comb adjusts her locks; <br>And at the play-house Harry keeps her box.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Lady+Mary+Wortley+Montagu">Lady Mary Wortley Montagu</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=431453" data-title="Friday, The Toilette de Lady Mary Wortley Montagu" data-description="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..."></div>
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