Poem by Mary Wortley Montagu

On the Death of Mrs. Bowes

Written extempore on a card, in a large company, 
December 14, 1724.

Hail, happy bride, for thou art truly blest!
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 charge deplor'd,
The tender lover for th'imperious lord:
Nor felt the pain that jealous fondness brings:
Nor felt, 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 sigh to you:
And if superior bliss Heaven can bestow,
With fellow-angels you enjoy it now. 

1. The Fourth Ode of the First Book of Horace Imitated
2. Epigram, 1734
3. Melinda's Complaint
4. Epistle to Lord Hervey on the King's Birthday from the Country
5. Ballad, on a Late Occurrence

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