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TO MRS. BINDON,

AT, BATH.

BY THE RIGHT HON. SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS.

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 Shakspeare, and Milton, and Waller ap

pear’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 hath 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 hath put out Pope's fires which he kindled

before;
And further, he says, men no longer shall boast
A science their slight and ill-treatment hath

1

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.

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MRS. BINDON'S ANSWER.

WHEN home I return'd from the dancing last

night, And, elate by your praises, attempted to write, I familiarly callid on Apollo for aid, And told him how many fine things you had

said. He smild at my folly, and gave me to know, Your wit, and not mine, by your writings you

show; “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:

“ Forsince Daphne to shun me grew into a laurel, “ With the sex I have sworn still to keep up the

quarrel." I thought it a joke, 'till by writing to you, I have prov'd his resentment, alas! but too true.

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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.

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