COUNTESS OF WINCHILSEA ���153 ���Poor Alcidor! thy hopes are cross'd, �Go perish on the Ground; Thy Sighs by stronger Notes are toss'd, Drove back, or in the Passage lost; �Rich Wines thy Tears have drown' d. �In Women's Hearts, the softest Things �Which Nature cou'd devise, Are yet some harsh, and jarring Strings, That, when loud Fame, or Profit rings, �Will answer to the Noise. 50 �Poor Alcidor! go Fight or Dye; Let thy fond Notions cease: Man was not made in Shades to lie, Or his full Bliss, at ease, enjoy, To Live, or Love in peace. ���THE CRITICK AND THE WRITER OF FABLES �Weary, at last, of the Pindar ick way, �Thro' which advent'rously the Muse wou'd stray; �To Fable I descend with soft Delight, �Pleas'd to Translate, or easily Endite: �Whilst aery Fictions hastily repair �To fill my Page, and rid my Thoughts of Care, �As they to Birds and Beasts new Gifts impart, �And Teach, as Poets shou'd, whilst they Divert. �But here, the Oritick bids me check this Vein. Fable, he crys, tho' grown th' affected Strain, 10 But dies, as it was born, without Regard or Pain. Whilst of his Aim the lazy Trifler fails, Who seeks to purchase Fame by childish Tales. ��� �
