Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/241

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Countess of Winchilsea
103

Then martyrs to our spite.
You of one Orpheus sure have read,
Who would like you have writ 10
Had he in London town been bred,
And polish'd to[o] his wit;
But he poor soul thought all was well,
And great should be his fame,
When he had left his wife in hell,
And birds and beasts could tame.
Yet venturing then with scoffing rhimes
The women to incense,
Resenting Heroines of those times
Soon punished his offence. 20
And as the Hebrus roll'd his scull,
And harp besmear'd with blood,
They clashing as the waves grew full,
Still harmoniz'd the flood.
But you our follies gently treat,
And spin so fine the thread,
You need not fear his aukward fate,
The lock wo'n't cost the head.
Our admiration you command
For all that's gone before; 30
What next we look for at your hand
Can only raise it more.
Yet sooth the Ladies I advise
(As me too pride has wrought,)
We're born to wit, but to be wise
By admonitions taught.

TO MR. POPE

The muse, of ev'ry heav'nly gift allowed
To be the chief, is public, though not proud.
Widely extensive is the poet's aim,