Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/180

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Which to avoid, more then the begging throng, I reach the coach, that swiftly rowls along, Least to Hide park, we shou'd too late be brought, And loose e're night, an hour of finding fault. Arriv'd, she crys,—
 * that awk'ard creature see,

A fortune born, and wou'd a beauty bee Cou'd others but beleive, as fast as she. Round me, I look, some Monster to discry, Whose wealthy acres, must a Title buye, Support my Lord, and be, since his have fail'd, With the high shoulder, on his race entayl'd; When to my sight, a lovely face appears, Perfect in e'vry thing, but growing years ; This I defend, to do my judgment right, Can you dispraise a skin so smooth, so white, That blush, which o're such well turn'd cheeks does rise, That look of youth, and those enliven'd eyes? She soon replies,—
 * that skin, which you admire,

Is shrunk, and sickly, cou'd you view itt nigher. The crimson lining and uncertain light, Reflects that blush, and paints her to the sight. Trust me, the look, which you comend, betrays A want of sence, more then the want of days, And those wild eyes, that round the cercle stray, Seem, as her witts, had but mistook their way. As I did mine, I to my self repeat, When by this envious side. I took my seat: Oh! for my groves, my Country walks, and bow'rs, Trees blast not trees, nor flow'rs envenom flow'rs, As beauty here, all beautys praise devours. But Noble Piso passes,—
 * he's a witt.