A Letter to the Right Honourable the Lady Russel.

Written at her Ladyship's Desire, on the Conversation at Breakfast.

At my low Cottage, on a chearful Morn,
 When slanting Beams did ev'ry Scene adorn;
 By Goodness prompted, native of their Breasts,
 Sir Harry and my Lady were my Guests. 
My Treat was homely, and my Table small,
 My Cloth and Dishes clean, and that was all:
 For thus it suited to my low Estate,
 'Twere insolent to imitate the Great. 
Hum'rous our Talk, and innocently gay;
 Our Subjects various; Manners, Men, and Play,
 And Love, and Wedlock; This our fav'rite Theme,
 And each to their own Fancy form'd the Scheme:
 "Maid! said Sir Harry, come, it's Time to wed;
" By Sympathy chuse C— to be your Head. 
 "Two Bodies so exactly pair'd! 'tis plain
" Heav'n made the Match, and destin'd him the Man." 
My Lady offer'd me her Farmer's Son. 
Sir Harry positive for C— alone. 
Soon I accepted, either was my Choice;
" Most Votes shall carry't. — Mine's a neutral Voice. 
 "So I may wed, I'm not exceeding nice;
" My humble Wishes, Sir, no higher rise,
 "Than that the Man be honest, free from Vice;
" Improv'd by Learning both of Books and Men;
 "His Genius witness'd by his well-known Pen;
" True to his Country, and fair Virtue's Cause;
 "Unaw'd, unbrib'd, by Pow'r or by Applause;
" From Superstition and Prophaneness free;
 "His Fortune equal to himself and me. 
" This Praise to C— his Friends allow is due;
 "And Part, dear Farmer, I believe of you." 

The P—, absent, could not speak his Mind;
 But the young Farmer, complaisant and kind,
 Bow'd, smil'd, and drank my Health. An Omen fair! 
But, ah! a young and fairer Maid was there;
 I fear my Rival's Charms, I fear her Art,
 Each serve to move, and both to win his Heart. 

Thus far in Mirth. — But now for steady Truth;
 I'm climb'd above the Scale of fickle Youth. 
From Pain of Love I'm perfectly at Ease,
 My Person Nature never form'd to please. 
Friendship's the sweetest Joy in human Life,
 'Tis that I wish — and not to be a Wife. 

Thus, Madam, your Command I have obey'd
 In artless Lines: Of Censure not afraid:
 Your Goodness will accept my humble Lays;
 Content with this, I seek no better Praise. 
Rough as the Road on which I gave them Birth,
 Dull as the clouded Morn, or barren Heath. 
Vainly I wish, oh could I tune my Song
 Sweet as your Name, and as your Virtue strong! 
With Pleasure I'd the grateful Theme pursue,
 But, I despair — And humbly bid, Adieu.