Lady Mary Chudleigh

Martha Fowke Sansom ("Clio"), "On Lady Chudleigh" Richard Savage, Miscellaneous Poems and Translations (1726) 213-14.

Methinks I see, yet weeping o'er her Cell,
The Vertues, in her Breast once known to dwell.
Apollo mourns not for a Son, so long,
Great are their Numbers, and their Force is strong:
But this soft Fav'rite, of the gentler Kind,
Scarce left Her Likeness, in Her Sex, behind.
Man look'd with Envy, and laid Learning by,
And let his useless Books neglected lie:
Her inborn Genius ask'd no foreign Aid,
A Muse may be improv'd, but never made.

Goodness still soften'd her superior Sense,
She knew not Affectation nor Offence.
She check'd the Reins of Wit, and wou'd confine
Her brighter Thoughts, to let Another's shine.
Scandal, that common Shade of Womankind,
Dimm'd not the Candor of her glitt'ring Mind.
Not on her Friends alone she smil'd, but Those,
Whom Ignorance, or Envy, made her Foes.
Her Soul and Body seem'd unfitly join'd;
The Frame so weak, so nobly strong the Mind!
But, when she languid, and more feeble grew,
The ill-eas'd Diamond seem'd to sparkle through.
As if it struggled for it's native Light,
And scorn'd th' adhering Earth, that clogg'd its Flight.