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, 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, 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, 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, Not fill'd with female witt, but female spleen.