EPISTLE XLIII.

ΤΟ

MRS. BINDON,

At Bath.

BY THE HONORABLE

SIR CHA. HANBURY WILLIAMS, BART.

APOLLO of old on Britannia did smile,
And Delphi forsook for the sake of this isle.
Around him he lavishly scatter'd his lays,
And in every wilderness planted his bays;
Then Chaucer and Spenser harmonious were heard,
Then Shakspere, and Milton, and Waller appear'd,
And Dryden, whose brows by Apollo were crown'd,
As he sung in such strains as the God might have
own'd:

But now, since the laurel is given of late

To Cibber, to Eusden, to Shadwell and Tate,
Apollo has quitted the isle he once lov'd,

And his harp and his bays to Hibernia remov'd;
He vows and he swears he'll inspire us no more,
And has put out Pope's fires which he kindled be-

fore;

And further he says, men no longer shall boast
A science their slight and ill treatment hath lost;
But that women alone for the future shall write ;
And who can resist, when they doubly delight?
And, lest we should doubt what he said to be true,
Has begun by inspiring Sapphira and You.

EPISTLE XLIV.

MRS. BINDON's

ANSWER.

WHEN home I return'd from the dancing last night, And elate by your praises attempted to write,

I familiarly call'd on Apollo for aid,

And told him how many fine things you had said.
He smil❜d at my folly, and gave me to know,
Your wit, and not mine, by your writings you shew:
And then, says the God, still to make you more vain,
He hath promis'd that I shall enlighten your brain;
When he knows in his heart, if he speak but his mind,
That no woman alive can now boast I am kind:
For since Daphne to shun me grew into a laurel,
With the sex I have sworn still to keep up the quarrel.
I thought it all joke, till by writing to you,
I have prov'd his resentment, alas! but too true.

SIR CHARLES's

REPLY.

I'LL not believe that Phoebus did not smile,
Unhappily for you I know his style;

To strains like yours of old his harp he strung,
And while he dictated Orinda sung.

Did beauteous Daphne's scorn of proffer'd love
Against the sex his indignation move?
It rather made you his peculiar care,

Convinc'd from thence, ye were as good as fair.
As mortals, who from dust receiv'd their birth,
Must when they die return to native earth;
So too the laurel, that your brow adorns,
Sprang from the fair, and to the fair returns.

EPISTLE XLVI.

ΤΟ

A LADY,

Who sent Compliments to a

CLERGYMAN

UPON THE TEN OF HEARTS.

YOUR Compliments, dear Lady, pray forbear, Old English services are more sincere ;

You send Ten Hearts, the tithe is only mine, Give me but One, and burn the other Nine.