Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/388

250 He the disputed Point must yield, Something resign of the contested Field; Till Lordly Man, born to Imperial Sway, Compounds for Peace, to make that Right away, And Woman, arm'd with Spleen, do's servilely Obey.

The Fool, to imitate the Wits, Complains of thy pretended Fits, And Dulness, born with him, wou'd lay Upon thy accidental Sway; Because, sometimes, thou dost presume Into the ablest Heads to come: That, often, Men of Thoughts refin'd, Impatient of unequal Sence, Such slow Returns, where they so much dispense, Retiring from the Croud, are to thy Shades inclin'd. O'er me alas! thou dost too much prevail: I feel thy Force, whilst I against thee rail; I feel my Verse decay, and my crampt Numbers fail. Thro' thy black Jaundice I all Objects see, As Dark, and Terrible as Thee, My Lines decry'd, and my Employment thought An useless Folly, or presumptuous Fault: Whilst in the Muses Paths I stray, Whilst in their Groves, and by their secret Springs My Hand delights to trace unusual Things, And deviates from the known, and common way; Nor will in fading Silks compose Faintly th' inimitable Rose, Fill up an ill-drawn Bird, or paint on Glass The Sovereign's blurr'd and undistinguish'd Face, The threatning Angel, and the speaking Ass.

Patron thou art to ev'ry gross Abuse, The sullen Husband's feign'd Excuse,