ey burn to triumph, and they sigh to tell:
Cruel to them that yield, cullies to them that sell.
Believe me, 'tis far the wiser course,
Superior art should meet superior force:
Hear, but be faithful to your int'rest still:
Secure your hearts--then fool with whom you will."

At Twickenham the Duke seems in some degree to have relied for his
entertainment upon his pen. There he wrote his articles for the _True
Briton_, and also indited various trifles in verse. Never neglecting an
opportunity to indulge his humour, when Lady Mary Wortley Montagu wrote
a poem on the untimely death of a friend, he could not refrain from
presenting her with a parody.

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. BOWES

_By Lady Mary Wortley Montagu_

"Hail, happy bride! for thou art truly bless'd,
Three months of rapture crown'd with endless rest.
Merit like yours was Heav'n's peculiar care,
You lov'd--yet tasted happiness sincere:
To you the sweets of love were only shown,
The sure succeeding bitter dregs unknown.
You had not yet the fatal change deplor'd
The tender lover for th' imperious lord,
Nor felt the pains that jealous fondness brings,
Nor wept that coldness from possession springs,
Above your sex distinguish'd in your fate,
You trusted--yet experienc'd no deceit.
Soft were your hours, and wing'd with pleasure flew,
No vain repentance gave a sign to you,
And if superior bliss heav'n can bestow,
With fellow-angels you enjoy it now."

THE ANSWER

_By the Duke of Wharton_

"Hail, Poetess! for thou art truly blest,
Of wit, of beauty, and of love possest,
Your muse does seem to bless poor Bowes's fate,
But far 'tis from you to desire her state,
In every line your wanton soul appears.
Your verse, tho' smooth, scarce fit for modest ears,
No pangs of jealous fondness doth thou shew.
And bitter dregs of love thou ne'er didst know:
The coldness that your husband oft has mourn'd,
Does vanish quite, when warm'd on Turkish ground.
For Fame does say, if Fame don't lying prove,
You paid obedience to the Sultan's love.
Who, fair one, then, was your imperious Lord?
Not Montagu, but Mahomet the word:
Great as your wit, just so is Wortley's love,
Your next attempt will be on thund'ring Jove,
The little angels you on Bowes bestow.
But gods themselves are only fit for you."

No writer of verses likes to have fun poked at them, eve