Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/323

COUNTESS OP WINCHILSEA ���185 ���My undisturb'd Repose, my sweet Retreat, For Treasures which you ravish' d in a Day, But swept my Folly, with my Goods, away. Then smile no more, nor these false Shews employ, Thou momentary Calm, thou fleeting Joy; No more on me shall these fair Signs prevail, Some other Novice may be won to Sail, Give me a certain Fate in the obscurest Vale. ���THE LORD AND THE BRAMBLE �To view his stately Walks and Groves, �A Man of Pow'r and Place Was hast'ning on; but as he roves, His Foe the slighted Bramble proves, �And stops his eager Pace. �That Shrub was qualify'd to Bite; �And now there went a Tale, That this injurious partial Wight Had bid his Gard'ner rid it quite, �And throw it o'er the Pail. �Often the Brtfr had wish'd to speak, �That this might not be done ; But from the Abject and the Weak, Who no important Figure make, What Statesman does not run? �But clinging now about his Waste, �Ere he had time to fly, My Lord (quoth he) for all your haste, I'll know why I must be displac'd, �And 'mongst the Rubbish lie. �Must none but bufne-headed Trees Within your Ground be seen ? ��� �