A collection of this lady's poems was published at London 1713 in 8vo. containing likewise a Tragedy never acted, entitled Aristomenes, or the Royal Shepherd. The general scenes are in Aristomenes's camp, near the walls of Phærea, sometimes the plains among the Shepherds. A great number of our authoress's poems still continue unpublished, in the hands of the rev. Mr. Creake, and some were in possession of the right hon. the countess of Hertford.
The countess of Winchelsea died August 9, 1720, without issue. She was happy in the friendship of Mr. Pope, who addresses a copy of verses to her, occasioned by eight lines in the Rape of the Lock: they contain a very elegant compliment.
In vain you boast poetic names of yore, And cite those Saphoes we admire no more: Fate doom'd the fall of ev'ry female wit, But doom'd it then, when first Ardelia writ. Of all examples by the world confest, I knew Ardelia could not quote the best, Who like her mistress on Britannia's throne Fights and subdues in quarrels not her own. To write their praise, you but in vain essay; E'en while you write, you take that praise away: Light to the stars, the sun does thus restore, And shines himself 'till they are seen no more.
The answer which the countess makes to the above, is rather more exquisite than the lines of Mr. Pope; he is foil'd at his own weapons, and outdone in the elegance of compliment.
Disarm'd with so genteel an air, The contest I give o'er; Yet Alexander have a care, And shock the sex no more. We rule the world our life's whole race, Men but assume that right; First slaves to ev'ry tempting face, Then martyrs to our spite. You of one Orpheus sure have read, Who would like you have writ Had he in London-town been bred, And polish'd too his wit; But he poor soul, thought all was well And great should be his fame, When he had left his wife in hell And birds, and beasts could tame. Yet venturing then with scoffing rhimes The women to incense, Resenting heroines of those times Soon punished his offence. And as the Hebrus roll'd his skull, And Harp besmeared with blood, They clashing as the waves grew full Still harmoniz'd the flood. But you our follies gently treat, And spin so fine the thread, You need not fear his awkward fate, The lock won't cost the head. Our admiration you command For all that's gone before; What next we look for at your hand Can only raise it more. Yet sooth the ladies, I advise (As me too pride has wrought) We're born to wit, but to be wise By admonitions taught.