Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/387

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Countess of Winchilsea
249
Falsly, the Mortal Part we blameOf our deprest, and pond'rous Frame,Which, till the First degrading SinLet Thee, its dull Attendant, in,Still with the Other did comply,30Nor clogg'd the Active Soul, dispos'd to fly, And range the Mansions of it's native Sky. Nor, whilst in his own Heaven he dwelt, Whilst Man his Paradice possest, His fertile Garden in the fragrant East, And all united Odours smelt, No armed Sweets, until thy Reign, Cou'd shock the Sense, or in the Face A flusht, unhandsom Colour place. Now the Jonquille o'ercomes the feeble Brain; 40We faint beneath the Aromatick Pain, Till some offensive Scent thy Pow'rs appease, And Pleasure we resign for short, and nauseous Ease.
In ev'ry One thou dost possess, New are thy Motions, and thy Dress: Now in some Grove a list'ning Friend Thy false Suggestions must attend, Thy whisper'd Griefs, thy fancy'd Sorrows hear, Breath'd in a Sigh, and witness'd by a Tear;Whilst in the light, and vulgar Croud, 50Thy Slaves, more clamorous and loud,By Laughters unprovok'd, thy Influence too confess.In the Imperious Wife thou Vapours art,Which from o'erheated Passions riseIn Clouds to the attractive Brain,Until descending thence again,Thro' the o'er-cast, and show'ring Eyes,Upon her Husband's soften'd Heart,
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