Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/319

 COUNTESS OF WINCHILSEA ���181 ���How! quoth the Lord of soaring Fowls, (Whilst horribly she wails and howls) Were then your Progeny but Owls? �I thought some Phoenix was their Sire, 70 �Who did those charming Looks inspire, That you'd prepar'd me to admire. �Upon your self the Blame be laid; My Talons you've to Blood betray'd, And ly'd in every Word you said. �Faces or Books, beyond thej,r Worth extolled, Are censured most, and thus to pieces pull ���THE PHILOSOPHEK, THE YOUNG MAN, AND HIS STATUE �A Fond Athenian Mother brought A Sculptor to indulge her Thought, �And carve her Only Son ; Who to such strange perfection wrought, That every Eye the Statue caught �Nor ought was left undone. �A youthful Smile adorn' d the Face, The polish gave that Smile a Grace; �And through the Marble reigns (Which well the Artist's Skill cou'd trace, And in their due Positions place) �A Thread of purple Veins. �The Parasites about it came, (Whose Praises were too large to name) �And to each other said ; The Man so well had reach' d his Aim, Th' Original cou'd o'er it claim Only a native Red. ��� �