Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/164

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No more then she the stars con'd number,
Yett loth this wretched course to follow
For once resolv'd to move Apollo. 40
Misled by Him and his vain Rabble,
To try his Curtesie and Stable
She then implor'd that for this time
And to be sure she sue'd in Rime
That he his Chariot wou'd but spare her
Which in a moment home might bear her
Scarse miss'd by him or his nine lasses.
But he reply'd she'd break the Glasses,
That late he saw such Fate attend her
And vow'd that his he n'ere wou'd lend her 50
That fitter 'twere she took the air
Like Country Doll to neighb'ring Faire
Like harvest Gill or stroling Player
For he'd not bear the World's reproaches
If Poets were allow'd their Coaches
Who spar'd on foot (with empty Purses)
Nor Prince nor Prelat in their verses
That Homer poor his spite to smother
Made fighting Fooles revile each other
Who had he but been back'd with Pelf 60
He had call'd Dogs and Rogues himself
Lampoon'd Queen Hellens well sung Flame
And giv'n Her but her coarsest Name
For which good cause and more 'twas hinted
The Tribe shou'd be kept bare and stinted
Shou'd eat by manners and good Nature
Or starve on Epigram and Satir.
She finding him thus hott proceed
Desir'd then but his winged steed
But he reply'd 'twou'd much disgrace him 70
To lett a female rider pace him