COUNTESS OF WINCHILSEA ���103 ���Then martyrs to our spite. You of one Orpheus sure have read, �Who would like you have writ 10 �Had he in London town been bred, �And polish'd to[o] his wit ; But he poor soul thought all was well, �And great should be his fame, When he had left his wife in hell, �And birds and beasts could tame. Yet venturing then with scoffing rhimes �The women to incense, Resenting Heroines of those times �Soon punished his offence. 20 �And as the Hebrus roll'd his scull, �And harp besmear'd with blood, They clashing as the waves grew full, �Still harmoniz'd the flood. But you our follies gently treat, �And spin so fine the thread, You need not fear his aukward fate, �The lock wo'n't cost the head. Our admiration you command �For all that's gone before ; 30 �What next we look for at your hand �Can only raise it more. Yet sooth the Ladies I advise �(As me too pride has wrought,) We're born to wit, but to be wise �By admonitions taught. �TO MK. POPE �The muse, of ev'ry heav'nly gift allowed To be the chief, is public, though not proud. Widely extensive is the poet's aim, ��� �
