Poems and Extracts/Poem by Lady Winchelsea

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     In the Muse's paths I stray;
Among their groves and by their sacred springs
My haul delights to trace unusual things,
And deviates from the known and common way:
     Nor will in fading skills compose,
     Faintly the inimitable rose,
Fill up an ill-drawn bird, or paint on glass
The treat'ning angel, and the speaking ass.