Tixall Poetry/From a Sick Poetesse to Mrs St George, on Her Feeding the Swans
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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;
By stately motion girding through the waves,
A posture that commands a look, not craves.
Their feet the oares, by which they steered aright,
But plac'd by Nature kindly out of sight.
With these in state they oft to shore did row,
Where creatures kind did food on them bestow.
But nere more proud than when the vizard maske,
And long wel-spread black scarfe performed that taske.
For contraries with greatest lustre shine,
When by position close they nearest joyne.
But oh! sad hap to this long happy payre!
A hand employ'd in this kind practis'd care,
A hand, by chance, or purpose, now unveil'd,
Shew'd farr more white than all their stock could yield.
Which seene, downe fell the snowey sailes, their wings;
Each huffing feather now more closely clings.
Noe food would downe, but sick, and quite undone,
What they could not excell they wisely shunn.
Away they fly, and in close covert hide
Their shame, to be outdone in all their pride.
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;
By stately motion girding through the waves,
A posture that commands a look, not craves.
Their feet the oares, by which they steered aright,
But plac'd by Nature kindly out of sight.
With these in state they oft to shore did row,
Where creatures kind did food on them bestow.
But nere more proud than when the vizard maske,
And long wel-spread black scarfe performed that taske.
For contraries with greatest lustre shine,
When by position close they nearest joyne.
But oh! sad hap to this long happy payre!
A hand employ'd in this kind practis'd care,
A hand, by chance, or purpose, now unveil'd,
Shew'd farr more white than all their stock could yield.
Which seene, downe fell the snowey sailes, their wings;
Each huffing feather now more closely clings.
Noe food would downe, but sick, and quite undone,
What they could not excell they wisely shunn.
Away they fly, and in close covert hide
Their shame, to be outdone in all their pride.