Wisdom, slow product of laborious years,
The only fruit that life's cold winter bears;
Thy sacred seeds in vain in youth we lay,
By the fierce storm of passion torn away.
Should some remain in a rich gen'rous soil,
They long lie hid, and must be rais'd with toil;
Faintly they struggle with inclement skies,
No sooner born than the poor planter dies.
More verses by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
- Julia To Ovid
- Impromptu, To A Young Lady Singing
- Thursday, The Bassette-Table
- The Bride In The Country
- Melinda's Complaint