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TO MRS. BINDON,
АТ, ВАТН. »
BY THE RIGHT HON. SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS.
APOLLO of old on Britannia did smile,
Then Shakspeare, and Milton, and Waller appear'd,
And Dryden, whose brows by Apollo were
As he sung in such strains as the God might have
But now, since the laurel is given of late,
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
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.
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
"And then," says the God, "still to make you more vain,
"He hath promis'd that I shall enlighten your
"When he knows in his heart, if he speak but
"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
I thought it a joke, 'till by writing to you,
SIR CHARLES'S REPLY.
I'LL not believe that Phœbus 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.