Virtue and Fame. to the Countess of Egremont

Virtue and Fame, the other day, Happen'd to cross each other's way. Said Virtue, "Hark ye, madam Fame, " Your ladyship is much to blame: " Jove bids you always wait on me, " And yet your face I seldom see. " The Paphian queen employs your trumpet, " And bids it praise some handsome strumpet; " Or, thundering thro' the ranks of war, " Ambition ties you to her car."

Saith Fame, "Dear madam, I protest, " I never think myself so blest, " As when I humbly wait behind you; " But 'tis so mighty hard to find you! " In such obscure retreats you lurk! " To seek you, is an endless work."

" Well, answer'd Virtue, I allow " Your plea. But hear, and mark me now: " I know (without offence to others) " I know the best of wives and mothers; " Who never pass'd an useless day " In scandal, gossiping, or play; " Whose modest wit, chastis'd by sense, " Is lively, cheerful innocence; " Whose heart nor envy knows, nor spite, " Whose duty is her sole delight; " Nor rul'd by whim, nor slave to fashion, " Her parent's joy, her husband's passion."

Fame smil'd, and answer'd, "On my life, " This is some country parson's wife, " Who never saw the court nor town, " Whose face is homely as her gown, " Who banquets upon eggs and bacon."— " No, madam, no—you're much mistaken— " I beg you'll let me set you right— " 'Tis one with every beauty bright, " Adorn'd with every polish'd art " That rank or fortune can impart; " 'Tis the most celebrated toast " That Britain's spacious isle can boast; " 'Tis princely Petworth's noble dame, " 'Tis Egremont—Go, tell it, Fame!"