Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/182

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The Poems of Anne
How fullsomly she oft repeats my dear,Letts fall some doubtfull words, that we may knowThere still a secret is, betwixt them two, 170And 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, 180As 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 betrayBut to your self, what now with greif I say,Who this, to none, but Confidents must break, 190Nor 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 com̄on 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, 200Not fill'd with female witt, but female spleen.
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