Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/183

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Her florish'd name, does o're a song expose, Which through all ranks, down to the Carman, goes. Or poetry is on her Picture found, In which she sits, with painted lawrel crown'd. If no such flyes, no vanity defile The Helyconian balm, the sacred oyl, Why shou'd we from that pleasing art be ty'd, Or like State Pris'ners, Pen and Ink deny'd? But see, the Sun his chariot home has driv'n From the vast shining ring of spacious Heav'n, Nor after him Celestial beautys stay, But crou'd with sparkling wheels the milky way. Shall we not then, the great example take And ours below, with equal speed forsake? When to your favours, adding this one more, You'll stop, and leave me thank-full, att my door. How! e're you've in the Drawing-room appear'd, And all the follys there beheld and heard. Since you've been absent, such intrigues are grown; Such new Coquetts and Fops are to be shown, Without their sight you must not leave the Town. Excuse me, I reply, my eyes ne're feast Upon a fool, tho' ne're so nicely dresst. Nor is itt musick to my burthen'd ear The unripe prating's of our sex to hear, A noysy girl, who' has at fifteen talk'd more Then Grandmother, or Mother here to fore, In all the cautious, prudent years they bore. Statesmen there are, (she crys) whom I can show That bear the kingdoms cares, on a bent brow; Who take the weight of politicks by grains, And to the least, know what each scull contains, Who's to be coach'd, who talk'd to when abroad, Who but the smile must have, and who the nod; And when this is the utmost of their skill,