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Countess of Winchilsea
105
Unless, since short in beauty of your own,
Some envious scribbler might in spite declare,
That for comparison you placed them there. 40
But envy could not against you succeed,
'Tis not from friends that write, or foes that read;
Censure or praise must from ourselves proceed.
Some envious scribbler might in spite declare,
That for comparison you placed them there. 40
But envy could not against you succeed,
'Tis not from friends that write, or foes that read;
Censure or praise must from ourselves proceed.
TO A FELLOW SCRIBBLER
Prithee, friend, that hedge behold:
When all we rhiming fools grow old,
That hedge our state will represent,
Who in vain flourish life have spent;
Amidst it stands a rivall'd tree
Now representing sixty three,
And like it you and I shall be.
The bare vine round about it clings
With mischievous, intangling strings,
The night shade, with a dismal flow'r, 10
Curl's o'er it, like a Lady's tower;
Or honesty with feather'd down,
Like grizled hair deforms its crown;
Luxuriant plants that o'er it spread,
Not med'cinal for heart or head,
Which serve but to amuse the sight,
Are like the nothings that we write;
Yet still 'tis thought, that tree's well plac'd,
With beauteous Eglantine imbrac'd;
But see how false appearance proves, 20
If he that honey-suckle loves;
His love the honey-suckle scorns,
Which climbs by him to reach the thorns;
The rival thorn his age derides,
And gnaws like jealousy his sides.
Then let us cease, my friend, to sing
When all we rhiming fools grow old,
That hedge our state will represent,
Who in vain flourish life have spent;
Amidst it stands a rivall'd tree
Now representing sixty three,
And like it you and I shall be.
The bare vine round about it clings
With mischievous, intangling strings,
The night shade, with a dismal flow'r, 10
Curl's o'er it, like a Lady's tower;
Or honesty with feather'd down,
Like grizled hair deforms its crown;
Luxuriant plants that o'er it spread,
Not med'cinal for heart or head,
Which serve but to amuse the sight,
Are like the nothings that we write;
Yet still 'tis thought, that tree's well plac'd,
With beauteous Eglantine imbrac'd;
But see how false appearance proves, 20
If he that honey-suckle loves;
His love the honey-suckle scorns,
Which climbs by him to reach the thorns;
The rival thorn his age derides,
And gnaws like jealousy his sides.
Then let us cease, my friend, to sing
