Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/182

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How fullsomly she oft repeats my dear,
Letts fall some doubtfull words, that we may know
There still a secret is, betwixt them two, 170
And makes a sign, the small white hand to shew.
When, Fate be prais'd, the coachman slacks the reins,
And o're my lap, no longer now she leans,
But how her choyce I like, does soon enquire ?
Can I dislike I cry, what all admire,
Discreet, and witty, civil and refin'd,
Nor, in her person fairer then her mind,
Is yong Alinda, if report be just ;
For half the Caracter, my eyes I trust.
What chang'd Almeria, on a suddain cold, 180
As if I of your freind, some tale had told?
No, she replyes, but when I hear her praise,
A secret failing does my pitty raise,
Damon she loves, and 'tis my dayly care,
To keep the passion from the publick ear,
I ask, amaz'd, if this she has reveal'd,
No, 'but tis true, she crys, though much conceal'd ;
I have observ'd itt long, nor wou'd betray
But to your self, what now with greif I say,
Who this, to none, but Confidents must break, 190
Nor they to others, but in whispers, speak;
I am her freind and must consult her fame.
More was she saying, when fresh objects came,
Now what's that thing, she crys, Ardelia, guesse?
A woman sure.—
Ay and a Poetesse,
They say she writes, and 'tis a comon jest.
Then sure sh' has publickly the skill professt,
I soon reply, or makes that gift her pride,
And all the world, but scribblers, does deride ;
Setts out Lampoons, where only spite is seen, 200
Not fill'd with female witt, but female spleen.