From Catherine Louisa Shipley (unpublished)
Chilbolton Septr 30th 1785

Does it not look a little like jealousy, my dear Friend to keep the Verses ’till my Purse was finish’d to send with them? I own it does, but indeed I love poor G: too much to be jealous of her and I would have you love her too, I think I love her more since I have lost her, because I miss her in a thousand little things which at the time I thought nothing of, and, besides this, the fear that she may not be happy makes me feel more interested about her. My Fathers kindness and generosity to her since her marriage has by some narrow-minded people been call’d encouragement to me to act as she did, it appears to me in quite a different light, and I shoud acknowledge myself infinitely more to blame if, presuming on his goodness, I was again to put it to the trial, but my good Friend, she has more to be said in her excuse than you may possibly know; for two years she wait’d the settling of Mr. Hare’s affairs in a state of anxiety and uncertainty that very much affected her health, and at last when she had no longer any hopes, she coud not bear the idea of giving him up to entire ruin, which she well knew must be the consequence of their separation; I believe there is no one that knows so well as myself what she suffer’d, we lay in the same room and many a sleepless night have we pass’d talking over the unhappiness of her situation. Mr. Hare is universally allow’d to have a good temper and I will not doubt his attachment to Georgia may we not then hope that her good sense will influence his conduct and that things will turn out better than we at first expected. We have lately received some large pacquets from Anna Maria, containing a good account of herself and Sir Wm. Jones but I fear it must still be several years before they return. The Slopers are now with us—a great improvement to our family party. Emily has done much better for herself than if she had married the Duke we allotted to her in our journey; Mr. Sloper, with a great deal of cleverness and good-sense has a most upright and conscientious way of thinking and I firmly believe no consideration woud make him act in any instance contrary to it. Bessy return’d from Cowes not much better than she went there and is still very poorly, my dear Frather and Mother are both pretty well. You see I write you the history of all the family for I love to think you are interested about us, and indeed I have no other subject; as for Politics, je ne m’en melle point, I am particularly interested for America because it is your Country, the Irish make a great noise, but there is no Dr. Franklin in Ireland and therefore I care not about them. I must now say a few words for the Purse, the Stripes you can count, but as for the white spots in the slit unless I do like a certain Painter (who when he had finish’d a picture was obliged to write upon each figure “This is a Manthis is an Horse” &cc.) and write upon them “these are Stars” I fear you will never guess what they are meant for. It is now two Months since we parted on boeard the London Pacquet, one Month more will I hope bring an account of your safe arrival at Philadelphia tho’ the newspapers have sent you prisoner to Algiers. Mr. Williams promised to write by the first opportunity and I trust will not forget. Believe me my dear Friend Most affectionately Yours

C S Shipley

All the family join in every good wish. I hope you will not forget The art having pleasant dreams. Miss Georgiana Shipley’s Verses. now Mrs. Hare
Imitation of the 16th Ode, 13th Book of Horace Inclusam Danaen

Need I, the magic charms of Gold to prove,

Repeat the tale of Danaw and Jove?

How She confined in Brazen Turret lies,

Lest flatt’ring Coxcombs steal the envied prize;

While He, immortal Libertine above,

Gazes, and owns the wond’rous power of Love;

How at his touch the Massive Gates unfold,

While stern Duenna bows, and takes the Gold,

And Miss, o’ercome by eloquence divine,

Forgets her scruples, while the Diamonds shine.

Need I to ancient story have recourse

Where Pitts late triumphs shews too well its force?

Force which nor Pride nor Honesty resists,

Nor the firm troop of Coalitionists.

While Robinson in parts with lavish hand

His Treasury-orders to the venal band,

To Pitt and influence the Chang’lings bow

Like prostrate Israel to the molten Cow;

They who so lately with stentorian cry

Tumultuous bowl’d for Fox and Liberty.

The venal Muse proud Hastings’ triumph sings

O’er plunder’d Potentates and murderd Kings,

Thus, in despite of Satire, Vice shall soar

While Knaves are bountiful and Poets poor.

Gold well applied repairs Wars direful chance

And gives her conquer’d Islands back to France,

Yet he who strips the borrowed plumes away

And fairly views it in the face of day,

With honest pride shall spurn the fatal Ore

And thank the partial Gods who made him poor.

Man with a little blest may happier be

While the sage precepts of OEconomy

Feed every nat’ral want, and leave behind

The poor Man’s pittance for the generous mind,

Than millions purchased with the Widdow’s tear

Tho’ plunder’d Asia give a     here.

  On some fair River’s bank, no matter where,

The Rhone the Shannon or the Delaware,

An humble Farm where certain Seasons give

A competence for Honesty to live.

Where no fierce Caturact my Cattle drown,

No purse-proud Lordling breaks my fences down,

No upstart Nabol makes provisions dear,

No curs’d Excise-man comes to tax my Beer,

Some spot that Liberty may call her own,

What England was when William wore the Crown,

Propitious Gods! a boon like this bestow

And leave ambition to the Lord of Stowe.

What tho’ no Weltje frames the sav’ry paste,

With fatal skill exites the languid taste,

No brisk Champaigne on sculptured Goblets flows,

Nor well vers’d Henry makes my birthday Cloaths;

Think not too meanly of my humble fare,

My farm yields Mutton and my Gun a Hare,

Blest with my little I desire no more.

If this be poverty may I be poor.

Say, can I covet honours wealth or state

When fortune stoops to make a Lowther great?

Were I like him an Earl, like him I might

Turn pale when Virtue shines with purer light,

Spurn my dear-purchased honors when I see

What gives to others fame give shame to me,

Sight for superior rank, and that possessd,

Feel Virtues scorn still rob my Soul of rest.

Hence if my life in purer current flows

Than princely wealth or Title’d greatness knows,

Blest be the powers above, who deign impart

That first of treasures, a Contented Heart.

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