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EPISTLE TO MRS. TERESA BLOUNT ON HER LEAVING THE TOWN AFTER THE CORONATION - Alexander Pope, The Complete Poetical Works of Alexander Pope [1903]

Edition used:

The Complete Poetical Works of Alexander Pope. Cambridge Edition, ed. Henry W. Boynton (Boston and New York: Houghton, Mifflin and Co., 1903).

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EPISTLE TO MRS. TERESA BLOUNT

ON HER LEAVING THE TOWN AFTER THE CORONATION

This was written shortly after the coronation of George I. ‘Zephalinda’ was a fanciful name employed by Teresa Blount in correspondence.

    • As some fond virgin, whom her mother’s care
    • Drags from the town to wholesome country air,
    • Just when she learns to roll a melting eye,
    • And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh—
    • From the dear man unwilling she must sever,
    • Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever—
    • Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew,
    • Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew;
    • Not that their pleasures caus’d her discontent;
    • She sigh’d not that they stay’d, but that she went.10
    • She went to plain-work, and to purling brooks,
    • Old-fashion’d halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks:
    • She went from Op’ra, Park, Assembly, Play,
    • To morning walks, and prayers three hours a day;
    • To part her time ’twixt reading and Bohea,
    • To muse, and spill her solitary tea;
    • Or o’er cold coffee trifle with the spoon,
    • Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon;
    • Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire,
    • Hum half a tune, tell stories to the squire;
    • Up to her godly garret after sev’n,21
    • There starve and pray, for that’s the way to Heav’n.
    • Some Squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack,
    • Whose game is Whist, whose treat a toast in sack;
    • Who visits with a gun, presents you birds,
    • Then gives a smacking buss, and cries—‘No words!’
    • Or with his hounds comes hollowing from the stable,
    • Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table;
    • Whose laughs are hearty, tho’ his jests are coarse,
    • And loves you best of all things—but his horse.30
    • In some fair ev’ning, on your elbow laid,
    • You dream of triumphs in the rural shade;
    • In pensive thought recall the fancied scene,
    • See coronations rise on ev’ry green:
    • Before you pass th’ imaginary sights
    • Of Lords and Earls and Dukes and garter’d Knights,
    • While the spread fan o’ershades your closing eyes;
    • Then gives one flirt, and all the vision flies.
    • Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls,
    • And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls!40
    • So when your Slave, at some dear idle time
    • (Not plagued with headaches or the want of rhyme)
    • Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew,
    • And while he seems to study, thinks of you;
    • Just when his fancy paints your sprightly eyes,
    • Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise,
    • Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite,
    • Streets, Chairs, and Coxcombs rush upon my sight;
    • Vext to be still in town, I knit my brow,
    • Look sour, and hum a tune, as you may now.50