50
Boileau's Lutrin.
She borrow'd surly Sydrac's Aged Look,
Wrinkl'd her Brow, and his long Visage took.
Earthward she bent, and to the Sight appears
Depress'd beneath the Weight of Fourscore Years,
Her Limbs did on a knotted Staff rely,
And seem'd to move on Springs of Chicanry:
A winking Taper in her Hand she takes,
And growling Thus the timid Band bespeaks.
Stop, Miscreant Wretches, whither wou'd you fly?
Here neither Bloodshed is, nor Enemy.
What! Will you then for a vile Bird alone
Your Honour lose, and Enterprize disown?
Dare you not stand the impotent Grimace
Of one poor Owl? What wou'd you do, alas!
If every day like me you saw the Bar,
And wag'd with hideous Looks eternal War?
Friend-
