Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/293

 ������COUNTESS OP WINCHILSEA 155 �But urge thy Pen, if thou wouldst move our Thoughts, To shew us private, or the publick Faults. Display the Times, High-Church or Low provoke; We'll praise the Weapon, as we like the Stroke, And warmly sympathizing with the Spite Apply to Thousands, what of One you write. 50 �Then, must that single Stream the Town supply, The harmless Fable-writer do's reply, And all the Rest of Helicon be dry ? And when so many choice Productions swarm, Must only Satire keep your Fancies warm ? Whilst even there, you praise with such Reserve, As if you'd in the midst of Plenty starve, Tho' ne'er so liberally we Authors carve. �Happy the Men, whom we divert with Ease, �Whom Opera's and Panegyricks please. 60 �A MILLER, HIS SON, AND THEIR ASS �A Fable Translated from Monsieur de la Fontaine �Tho' to Antiquity the Praise we yield �Of pleasing Arts ; and Fable's earli'st Field �Own to be fruitful Greece; yet not so clean �Those Ears were reap'd, but still there's some to glean ; �And from the Lands of vast Invention come �Daily new Authors, with Discov'ries home. �This curious Piece, which I shall now impart, Fell from Malherbe, a Master in his Art, To Racan, fill'd with like poetick Fire, Both tuneful Servants of Apollo^s Choir, 10 �Rivals and Heirs to the Horatian Lyre: Who meeting him, one Day, free and alone, (For still their Thoughts were to each other known) ���� �