Tixall Poetry.
287
From a Sick Poetesse to Mrs St George,
on Her Feeding the Swans.
Two freezing winters, and one summer's heat,
To the poore sufferers both seeming great,
A lovely payre of swans in pond had past,
Which pleasant walkes and shady willows grac't.
In all which time, in all within their view,
Of heaven or earth, they nothing saw or knew
Like to themselves, soe delicately white,
In brightest day nor clearest moonshine night.
Who then can blame that pride should enter there,
Where we possesse all that wee know is faire?
Such shew'd this payre to each observing eye,
By bridled necks, and wings erected high;
To the poore sufferers both seeming great,
A lovely payre of swans in pond had past,
Which pleasant walkes and shady willows grac't.
In all which time, in all within their view,
Of heaven or earth, they nothing saw or knew
Like to themselves, soe delicately white,
In brightest day nor clearest moonshine night.
Who then can blame that pride should enter there,
Where we possesse all that wee know is faire?
Such shew'd this payre to each observing eye,
By bridled necks, and wings erected high;
