_Who died of a cancer in her breast_[155].
Here rests a woman, good without pretence,
Blest with plain reason, and with sober sense:
No conquest she, but o'er herself, desir'd;
No arts essay'd, but not to be admir'd.
Passion and pride were to her soul unknown,
Convinc'd that virtue only is our own.
So unaffected, so compos'd a mind,
So firm, yet soft, so strong, yet so refin'd,
Heav'n, as its purest gold, by tortures try'd;
The saint sustain'd it, but the woman dy'd.
I have always considered this as the most valuable of all Pope's
epitaphs; the subject of it is a character not discriminated by any
shining or eminent peculiarities; yet that which really makes though not
the splendour, the felicity of life, and that which every wise man will
choose for his final and lasting companion in the languor of age, in the
quiet of privacy, when he departs weary and disgusted from the
ostentatious, the volatile, and the vain. Of such a character, which the
dull overlook, and the gay despise, it was fit that the value should be
made known, and the dignity established. Domestick virtue, as it is
exerted without great occasions, or conspicuous consequences, in an even
unnoted tenour, required the genius of Pope to display it in such a
manner as might attract regard, and enforce reverence. Who can forbear
to lament that this amiable woman has no name in the verses?
If the particular lines of this inscription be examined, it will appear
less faulty than the rest. There is scarcely one line taken from
commonplaces, unless it be that in which _only virtue_ is said to be our
own. I once heard a Jady of great beauty and excellence object to the
fourth line, that it contained an unnatural and incredible panegyrick.
Of this let the ladies judge.