y Wharton broke through every rule?
'Twas all for fear the knaves should call him fool."

The Duke wrote a play on Mary Queen of Scots--of which only four lines
have been preserved:

"Sure were I free, and Norfolk were a prisoner,
I'd fly with more impatience to his arms,
Than the poor Israelite gaz'd on the serpent.
When life was the reward of every look."

It is usually stated that this play was written at some time between
1728 and 1730, but it is certain that it was begun at this time--
probably it was never finished. Perhaps only the scenario was drawn up,
and a few scenes outlined; but that so much at least was done while the
author was at Twickenham is proved conclusively by the fact that at this
time Lady Mary composed for the play an epilogue, designed to be spoken
by Mrs. Oldfield.

"What could luxurious woman wish for more.
To fix her joys, or to extend her pow'r?
Their every wish was in this Mary seen.
Gay, witty, youthful, beauteous, and a queen.
Vain useless blessings with ill-conduct join'd!
Light as the air, and fleeting as the wind.
Whatever poets write, and lovers vow.
Beauty, what poor omnipotence hast thou?
Queen Bess had wisdom, council, power and laws;
How few espous'd a wretched beauty's cause?
Learn thence, ye fair, more solid charms to prize,
Contemn the idle flatt'rers of your eyes.
The brightest object shines but while 'tis new.
That influence lessens by familiar view.
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.
Two great examples have been shown to-day,
To what sure ruin passion does betray,
What long repentance to short joys is due,
When reason rules, what glory must ensue.
If you will love, love like Eliza then,
Love for amusement, like those traitors, men.
Think that the pastime of a leisure hour
She favor'd oft--but never shar'd her pow'r.
The traveller by desert wolves pursued,
If by his heart the savage foe's subdu'd,
The world will still the noble act applaud,
Though victory was gain'd by needful fraud.
Such is, my tender sex, our helpless case,
And such the barbarous heart, hid by the begging face,
By passion fir'd, and not withheld by shame,
They cruel hunters are, we trembling game.
Trust me, dear ladies, (for I know 'em well),
Th