Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/333

���COUNTESS OF WINCHILSEA 195 �Received per rae's the only Stile. �Your Book's but frown'd on by My Lord; �If Mine's uncross'd, I reach his Board. �In slighting Yours, he shuts his Hand; �Protracting Mine, devolves the Land. �Then let Advantage be the Test, �Which of us Two ev'n Writes the best. 30 �Besides, I often Scarlet wear, �And strut to Church, just next the Mayor. �Whilst rusty Black, with Inch of Band, �Is all the Dress you understand; �Who in the Pulpit thresh to Please, �Whilst I below can snore at Ease. �Yet, if you prove me there a Sinner, �I let you go without a Dinner. �This Prate was so beneath the Sence �Of One, who Wisdom cou'd dispense, 40 �Unheard, or unreturn'd it past: �But War now lays the City waste, �And plunder'd Goods profusely fell �By length of Pike, not length of Ell. �Abroad th' Inhabitants are forc'd, �From Shops, and Trade, and Wealth divorc'd. �The Student leaving but his Book, �The Tumult of the Place forsook. �In Foreign Parts, One tells his Tale, �How Rich he'd been, how quick his Sale, 50 �Which do's for scanty Alms prevail. �The Chance of War whilst he deplores, �And dines at Charitable Doors; �The Man of Letters, known by Fame, �Was welcom'd, wheresoe'er he came. �Still, Potentates entreat his Stay, �Whose Coaches meet him on the Way: ��� �