Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903/Ardelia's Answer to Ephelia
ARDELIA'S ANSWER TO EPHELIA,
who had invited her to come to her in town—reflecting on the Coquetterie and detracting humour of the Age
Me, dear Ephelia, me, in vain you courtWith all your pow'rfull influence, to resortTo that great Town, where Freindship can but have The few spare hours, which meaner pleasures leave.No! Let some shade, or your large Pallace beOur place of meeting, love, and liberty;To thoughts, and words, and all endearments free.But, to those walls, excuse my slow repair;Who have no businesse, or diversion there;No daz'ling beauty, to attract the gaze 10Of won'd'ring crouds to my applauded face;Nor to my little witt, th' ill nature joyn'd,To passe a gen'rall censure on mankind:To call the yong, and unaffected, fools;Dull all the grave, that live by moral rules;To say the souldier brags, who ask'd declaresThe nice escapes and dangers of his wars,The Poet's vain, that knows his unmatch'd worth,And dares maintain what the best Muse brings forth:Yett, this the humour of the age is grown, 20And only conversation of the Town.In Satir vers'd, and sharpe detraction, bee,And you're accomplish'd, for all company.
II When my last visit, I to London made,Me, to Almeria, wretched chance, betray'd;The fair Almeria, in this art so known,That she discerns all failings, but her own.With a lowd welcome, and a strict embrace,Kisses on kisses, in a publick place,Sh' extorts a promise, that next day I dine 30With her, who for my sight, did hourly pine;And wonders, how so far I can remove,From the beaux monde, and the dull country love;Yet vows, if but an afternoon 'twoud costTo see me there, she cou'd resolve allmost To quitt the Town, and for that time, be lost. My word I keep, we dine, then rising late,Take coach, which long had waited at the gate.About the streets, a tedious ramble goe,To see this Monster, or that wax work show, 40Or any thing, that may the time bestow.When by a Church we passe, I ask to stay,Go in, and my devotions, humbly payTo that great Pow'r, whom all the wise obey.Whilst the gay thing, light as her feather'd dresse,Flys round the Coach, and does each cusheon presse,Through ev'ry glasse, her sev'ral graces shows,This, does her face, and that, her shape expose,To envying beautys, and admiring beauxs.One stops, and as expected, all extolls, 50Clings to the door, and on his elbow lolls,Thrusts in his head, at once to veiw the fair,And keep his curls from discomposing air,Then thus proceeds—My wonder itt is grownTo find Almeria here, and here alone.Where are the Nymphs, that round you us'd to croud,Of your long courted approbation proud,Learning from you, how to erect their hair,And in perfection, all their habitt wear,To place a patch, in some peculiar way, 60That may an unmark'd smile, to sight betray,And the vast genius of the Sex, display? Pitty me then (she crys) and learn the fateThat makes me Porter to a Temple gate;Ardelia came to Town, some weeks agoe,Who does on books her rural hours bestow,And is so rustick in her cloaths and meen,'Tis with her ungenteel but to be seen, Did not a long acquaintance plead excuse;Besides, she likes no witt, thats now in use, 70Dispises Courtly Vice, and plainly sais,That sence and Nature shou'd be found in Plays,And therefore, none will 'ere be brought to seeBut those of Dryden, Etheridge, or Lee,And some few Authors, old, and dull to me.To her I did engage my coach and day,And here must wait, while she within does pray.Ere twelve was struck, she calls me from my bed,Nor once observes how well my toilett's spread;Then, drinks the fragrant tea contented up, 80Without a complement upon the cup,Tho' to the ships, for the first choice I stear'd,Through such a storm, as the stout bargemen fear'd;Least that a praise, which I have long engross'dOf the best china Equipage, be lost.Of fashions now, and colours I discours'd,Detected shops that wou'd expose the worst,What silks, what lace, what rubans she must have,And by my own, an ample pattern gave;To which, she cold, and unconcern'd reply'd, 90I deal with one that does all these provide,Hauing of other cares, enough beside;And in a cheap, or an ill chosen gown,Can vallue blood that's nobler then my own,And therefore hope, my self not to be weigh'dBy gold, or silver, on my garments laid;Or that my witt, or judgment shou'd be readIn an uncomon colour on my head. Stupid! and dull, the shrugging Zany crys;When, service ended, me he moving spy's, 100Hastes to conduct me out, and in my earDrops some vile praise, too low for her to hear; Which to avoid, more then the begging throng,I reach the coach, that swiftly rowls along,Least to Hide park, we shou'd too late be brought,And loose e're night, an hour of finding fault.Arriv'd, she crys,—that awk'ard creature see,A fortune born, and wou'd a beauty beeCou'd others but beleive, as fast as she.Round me, I look, some Monster to discry, 110Whose wealthy acres, must a Title buye,Support my Lord, and be, since his have fail'd,With the high shoulder, on his race entayl'd;When to my sight, a lovely face appears,Perfect in e'vry thing, but growing years;This I defend, to do my judgment right,Can you dispraise a skin so smooth, so white,That blush, which o're such well turn'd cheeks does rise,That look of youth, and those enliven'd eyes?She soon replies,— 120that skin, which you admire,Is shrunk, and sickly, cou'd you view itt nigher.The crimson lining and uncertain light,Reflects that blush, and paints her to the sight.Trust me, the look, which you com̄end, betraysA want of sence, more then the want of days,And those wild eyes, that round the cercle stray,Seem, as her witts, had but mistook their way.As I did mine, I to my self repeat,When by this envious side. I took my seat:Oh! for my groves, my Country walks, and bow'rs, 130Trees blast not trees, nor flow'rs envenom flow'rs,As beauty here, all beautys praise devours.But Noble Piso passes,—he's a witt. As some (she sais) wou'd have itt, tho' as yettNo line he in a Lady's fan has writt,N'ere on their dresse, in verse, soft things wou'd say,Or with loud clamour ouer powr'd a Play,And right or wrong, preuented the third day;To read in publick places, is not known,Or in his Chariot, here appears alone; 140Bestows no hasty praise, on all that's new.When first this Coach came out to publick veiw,Mett in a visit, he presents his handAnd takes me out, I make a willfull stand,Expecting, sure, this wou'd applause invite,And often turn'd, that way, to guide his sight;Till finding him wrapp'd in a silent thought,I ask'd, if that the Painter well had wrought,Who then reply'd, he 'has in the Fable err'd,Cov'ring Adonis with a monstrous beard; 150Made Hercules (who by his club is shewn)A gentler fop then any of the Town,Whilst Venus, from a bogg is rising seen,And eyes a squint, are given to beautys queenI had no patience, longer to attend,And know 'tis want of witt, to discom̄end. Must Piso then! be judg'd by such as these,Piso, who from the Latin, Virgil frees,Who loos'd the bands, which old Sylenus bound,And made our Albion rocks repeat the mistick sound, 160"Whilst all he sung was present to our eyes"And as he rais'd his verse, the Poplars seem'd to rise?"Scarce cou'd I in my brest my thoughts contain,Or for this folly, hide my just disdain.When see, she says, observe my best of friends,And through the window, half her length extendsExalts her voyce, that all the ring may hear; How fullsomly she oft repeats my dear,Letts fall some doubtfull words, that we may knowThere still a secret is, betwixt them two, 170And makes a sign, the small white hand to shew.When, Fate be prais'd, the coachman slacks the reins,And o're my lap, no longer now she leans,But how her choyce I like, does soon enquire? Can I dislike I cry, what all admire,Discreet, and witty, civil and refin'd,Nor, in her person fairer then her mind,Is yong Alinda, if report be just;For half the Caracter, my eyes I trust.What chang'd Almeria, on a suddain cold, 180As if I of your freind, some tale had told?No, she replyes, but when I hear her praise,A secret failing does my pitty raise,Damon she loves, and 'tis my dayly care,To keep the passion from the publick ear,I ask, amaz'd, if this she has reveal'd,No, 'but tis true, she crys, though much conceal'd;I have observ'd itt long, nor wou'd betrayBut to your self, what now with greif I say,Who this, to none, but Confidents must break, 190Nor they to others, but in whispers, speak;I am her freind and must consult her fame.More was she saying, when fresh objects came,Now what's that thing, she crys, Ardelia, guesse?A woman sure.—Ay and a Poetesse,They say she writes, and 'tis a com̄on jest.Then sure sh' has publickly the skill professt,I soon reply, or makes that gift her pride,And all the world, but scribblers, does deride;Setts out Lampoons, where only spite is seen, 200Not fill'd with female witt, but female spleen. Her florish'd name, does o're a song expose,Which through all ranks, down to the Carman, goes.Or poetry is on her Picture found,In which she sits, with painted lawrel crown'd.If no such flyes, no vanity defileThe Helyconian balm, the sacred oyl,Why shou'd we from that pleasing art be ty'd,Or like State Pris'ners, Pen and Ink deny'd?—But see, the Sun his chariot home has driv'n 210From the vast shining ring of spacious Heav'n,Nor after him Celestial beautys stay,But crou'd with sparkling wheels the milky way.Shall we not then, the great example takeAnd ours below, with equal speed forsake?When to your favours, adding this one more,You'll stop, and leave me thank-full, att my door.How! e're you've in the Drawing-room appear'd,And all the follys there beheld and heard.Since you've been absent, such intrigues are grown; 220Such new Coquetts and Fops are to be shown,Without their sight you must not leave the Town.Excuse me, I reply, my eyes ne're feastUpon a fool, tho' ne're so nicely dresst.Nor is itt musick to my burthen'd earThe unripe prating's of our sex to hear,A noysy girl, who' has at fifteen talk'd moreThen Grandmother, or Mother here to fore,In all the cautious, prudent years they bore.Statesmen there are, (she crys) whom I can show 230That bear the kingdoms cares, on a bent brow;Who take the weight of politicks by grains,And to the least, know what each scull contains,Who's to be coach'd, who talk'd to when abroad,Who but the smile must have, and who the nod;And when this is the utmost of their skill, 'Tis not much wonder, if affairs go ill.Then for the Church-men—hold my lodging's here;Nor can I longer a re-proof forbearWhen sacred things nor Persons she wou'd spare. 240 We parted thus, the night in peace I spent,And the next day, with haste and pleasure wentTo the best seat of fam'd and fertile Kent.Where lett me live from all detraction freeTill thus the World is criticis'd by mee;Till freind, and Foe, I treat with such dispiteMay I no scorn, the worst of ills, excite.