Contented in my humble State,
I look with Pity on the Great;
Who only Birth, or Wealth, respect,
And treat true Merit with neglect.
An Oak, with spreading Branches crown'd,
Beheld an Ivy on the Ground,
Expos'd to ev'ry trampling Beast,
Your Wine, by Southern Suns refin'd,
Is a just Emblem of your Mind:
Like You, the gen'rous Juice displays
Its Influence a thousand Ways;
For give me, fair One, nor resent
The Lines to you I lately sent.
They seem, as if your Form you priz'd,
And ev'ry other Gift despis'd:
As thro' this sylvan Scene I stray'd,
I saw and lov'd the Iv'ry Maid:
And hearing that she fled from Man,
I begg'd this Form of mighty Pan;
To the late King of Britain a Savage was brought,
Which wild in the Woods of Germania was caught.
To the Right Hon. the Lady Carteret.
Weary'd with long Attendance on the Court,
You, Madam, are the Wretch's last Resort.
This mourning Mother can with Ease explore
The Arts of Latium, and the Grecian Store:
Was early learn'd, nay more, was early wise;
Were Princes grac'd with Souls like thine,
Princes had still been deem'd divine.
Such Merit as we find in thee,
First introduc'd Idolatry;