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TO MRS. BINDON,
BY THE RIGHT HON. SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS.
APOLLO of old on Britannia did smile,
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,
But that women alone for the future shall write ;
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.
SIR CHARLES'S REPLY.
I'LL not believe that Phoebus did not smile : Unhappily for
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.