Charles Mordaunt, Earl of Peterborough (1658–1735)

I SAID to my heart, between sleeping and waking,

‘Thou wild thing, that always art leaping or aching,

What black, brown, or fair, in what clime, in what nation,

By turns has not taught thee a pit-a-pat-ation?’

Thus accused, the wild thing gave this sober reply:

‘See the heart without motion though Cœlia pass by;

Not the beauty she has, nor the wit that she borrows,

Gives the eye any joys, or the heart any sorrows.

‘When our Sappho appears, she whose wit so refined

I am forced to applaud with the rest of mankind,

Whatever she says is with spirit and fire;

Every word I attend—but I only admire.

‘Prudentia as vainly would put in her claim;

Ever gazing on heaven, though man is her aim.

’Tis love, not devotion, that turns up her eyes;

Those stars of this world are too good for the skies.

‘But Chloe so lively, so easy, so fair—

Her wit so genteel, without art, without care;

When she comes in my way, the motion, the pain,

The leapings, the achings, return all again.’

O wonderful creature! a woman of reason;

Never grave out of pride, never gay out of season.

When so easy to guess who this angel should be,

Would one think Mrs. Howard ne’er dreamt it was she?