COUNTESS OF WINCHILSEA 213 �Thus sung the Bard, whom potent Liquor rais'd, 90 Nor so contented, wish'd sublimer Aid. Ye Wits! (he cry'd) ye Poets! (Loiterers vain, Who like to us, in Idleness and Want Consume fantastick Hours) hither repair, And tell to list'ning Mendicants the Cause Of Wonders, here observ'd but not discuss'd: Where, the White Sparrow never soil'd her Plumes, Nor the dull Russet cloaths the Snowy Mouse. To Helicon you might the Spring compare, That flows near Pickersdane renowned Stream, 100 Which, for Disport and Play, the Youths frequent, Who, train'd in Learned School of ancient Wye, First at this Fount suck in the Muses Lore, When mixt with Product of the Indian Cane, They drink delicious Draughts, and part inspir'd, Fit for the Banks of Isis, or of Cham, (For Cham and Isis to the Bard were known, A Servitor, when young in College-Hall, Tho' vagrant Liberty he early chose, Who yet, when Drunk, retain'd Poetick Phrase.) 110 Nor shou'd (quoth he) that Well, o'erhung with shade, Amidst those neighb'ring Trees of dateless growth, Be left unfathom'd by your nicer Skill Who thence cou'd extricate a thousand Charms, Or to oblivious Lethe might convert The stagnant Waters of the sleepy Pool. But most unhappy was that Morphean Sound For lull'd JBudgeta, who had long desir'd Dismission fair from Tales, not throughly scann'd, Thinking her Love a Sympathy confest, 120 �When the Word Sleepy parted from his Lips, Sunk affable and easy to that Rest, Which Straw affords to Minds, unvex'd with Cares. ��� �
