There he wrote his articles for the _True Briton_, and also indited various trifles in verse.

Never neglecting an opportunity to indulge his humour, when Lady Mary Wortley Montagu wrote a poem on the untimely death of a friend, he could not refrain from presenting her with a parody.
ON THE DEATH OF MRS.

BOWES _By Lady Mary Wortley Montagu_ "Hail, happy bride! for thou art truly bless'd, Three months of rapture crown'd with endless rest.
Merit like yours was Heav'n's peculiar care, You lov'd--yet tasted happiness sincere: To you the sweets of love were only shown, The sure succeeding bitter dregs unknown.
You had not yet the fatal change deplor'd The tender lover for th' imperious lord, Nor felt the pains that jealous fondness brings, Nor wept that coldness from possession springs, Above your sex distinguish'd in your fate, You trusted--yet experienc'd no deceit.
Soft were your hours, and wing'd with pleasure flew, No vain repentance gave a sign to you, And if superior bliss heav'n can bestow, With fellow-angels you enjoy it now." THE ANSWER _By the Duke of Wharton_ "Hail, Poetess! for thou art truly blest, Of wit, of beauty, and of love possest, Your muse does seem to bless poor Bowes's fate, But far 'tis from you to desire her state, In every line your wanton soul appears.
Your verse, tho' smooth, scarce fit for modest ears, No pangs of jealous fondness doth thou shew.
And bitter dregs of love thou ne'er didst know: The coldness that your husband oft has mourn'd, Does vanish quite, when warm'd on Turkish ground.
For Fame does say, if Fame don't lying prove, You paid obedience to the Sultan's love.
Who, fair one, then, was your imperious Lord?
Not Montagu, but Mahomet the word: Great as your wit, just so is Wortley's love, Your next attempt will be on thund'ring Jove, The little angels you on Bowes bestow.
But gods themselves are only fit for you." No writer of verses likes to have fun poked at them, even in the form of friendly banter, but Lady Mary seems to have borne the affliction admirably.
Two persons with such impish humour could not but frequently find themselves at loggerheads, but their liking for each other's society was genuine, and quarrels were followed by peace-making.

"Sophia [as she nicknamed the young man] and I have been quite reconciled, and are now quite broke, and I believe not likely to piece up again," Lady Mary wrote to her sister.

This was in February, 1725, and a little later in the year the breach was widened by the really outrageous conduct of the Duke: "Sophia and I have an immortal quarrel; which though I resolve never to forgive, I can hardly forbear laughing at.