Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/278

140 THE POEMS OF ANNE �Where Sysigambis, prostrate on the Floor, �Did Alexander in thy Form adore; 30 �Above great JEsculapius shou'd he stand, �Or made immortal by Apelles Hand. �But no reviving Hope his Art allows, �And such cold Damps invade my anxious Brows, �As, when in Cydnus plung'd, I dar'd the Flood �T' o'er-match the Boilings of my youthful Blood. �But Philip to my Aid repair' d in haste ; �And whilst the proffer' d Draught I boldly taste, �As boldly He the dangerous Paper views, �Which of hid Treasons does his Fame accuse. 40 �More thy Physician's Life on Thine depends, �And what he gives, his Own preserves, or ends. �If thou expir'st beneath his fruitless Care, �To Rhadamanthus shall the Wretch repair, �And give strict Answer for his Errors there. �Near thy Pavilion list'ning Princes wait, Seeking from thine to learn their Monarch's State. Submitting Kings, that post from Day to Day, To keep those Crowns, which at my Feet they lay, Forget th' ambitious Subject of their Speed, 50 �And here arriv'd, only Thy Dangers heed. The Beauties of the Clime, now Thou'rt away, Droop, and retire, as if their God of Day No more upon their early Pray'rs would shine, Or take their Incense, at his late Decline. Thy Parisatis whom I fear to name, Lest to thy Heat it add redoubl'd Flame ; Thy lovely Wife, thy Parisatis weeps, And in her Grief a solemn Silence keeps. Stretch'd in her Tent, upon the Floor she lies, 60 �So pale her Looks, so motionless her Eyes, ��� �