Pope writes to his friend Teresa Blount, who has reluctantly left London just as the coronation festivities were winding down. With a gentle, teasing affection, he compares her departure to a young girl dragged away from a first romance — she gets one last kiss before facing the dull countryside. The bulk of the poem imagines her new, excruciatingly boring life: simple sewing, creaky old halls, tedious relatives, and long hours of prayer, broken only by staring at the clock or idly playing with a spoon. The real sting comes when Pope pictures her half-drowsing by the fire, dreaming of the glamour she’s missing — lords, earls, and glittering coronation processions — only to have the vision pop like a bubble with a twitch of her fan. He then turns the joke on himself. He, too, gets lost in daydreams of her face and blush, but a friend’s sudden tap on his shoulder snaps him back to the noise of city streets. What lingers is a mood of tender mockery and shared restlessness — two people equally caught between vivid fantasy and a world that keeps interrupting.
Epistle to Mrs Teresa Blount. on Her Leaving the Town After the Coronation. — Summary
As some fond virgin, whom her mother's care Drags from the town to wholesome country air, Just when she learns to roll a melting eye, And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh; From the dear man unwilling she must sever, Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever: Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew, Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew; Not that their pleasures caused her discontent, She sigh'd not that they staid, but that she went.
She went to plain-work, and to purling brooks, Old-fashion'd halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks: She went from opera, park, assembly, play, To morning-walks, and prayers three hours a-day: To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea, To muse, and spill her solitary tea; Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon, Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon; Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire, Hum half a tune, tell stories to the 'squire; Up to her godly garret after seven, There starve and pray, for that's the way to heaven.
Some 'squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack; Whose game is whist, whose treat, a toast in sack; Who visits with a gun, presents you birds, Then gives a smacking buss, and cries--No words! Or with his hound comes hallooing from the stable, Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table; Whose laughs are hearty, though his jests are coarse, And loves you best of all things--but his horse.
In some fair evening, on your elbow laid, You dream of triumphs in the rural shade; In pensive thought recall the fancied scene, See coronations rise on every green; Before you pass the imaginary sights Of lords, and earls, and dukes, and garter'd knights, While the spread fan o'ershades your closing eyes; Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies. Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls, And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls!
So when your slave, at some dear idle time, (Not plagued with headaches, or the want of rhyme) Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew, And while he seems to study, thinks of you; Just when his fancy paints your sprightly eyes, Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise, Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite, Streets, chairs, and coxcombs rush upon my sight; Vex'd to be still in town, I knit my brow, Look sour, and hum a tune, as you do now.