ld impose
"impossibilities upon me. I know the filthiness of the infidels; I
"perceive that you are ashamed, and I will say no more."

I FOUND so much good sense and propriety in what she said, that I
knew not how to contradict her; and, at length, I acknowledged, that
she had reason to prefer the Mahometan manners to our ridiculous
customs, which form a confused medley of the rigid maxims of
Christianity, with all the libertinism (sic) of the Spartans: And,
notwithstanding our absurd manners, I am persuaded, that a woman who
is determined to place her happiness in her husband's affections,
should abandon the extravagant desire of engaging public adoration;
and that a husband, who tenderly loves his wife, should, in his turn,
give up the reputation of being a gallant. You find that I am
supposing a very extraordinary pair; it is not very surprising,
therefore, that such an union should be uncommon in those countries,
where it is requisite to conform to established customs, in order to
be happy.

VERSES

_Written in the Chiask, at Pera, overlooking Constantinople, December
26th, 1718._

By Lady MARY WORTLEY MONTAGUE.

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 leading pipes convey'd,
Or greatly falling in a forc'd _cascade_,
Pure and unsully'd winding thro' 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_ benum'd's a river now no more:
The barren meads no longer yield delight,
By glist'ring 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 colour rise,
And with fresh sweets the mother's scent supplies,
Near them the _Violet_ grows with odours blest,
And blooms in more than Ty