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TO MRS. BINDON,
BY THE RIGHT HON. SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS.
APOLLO of old on Britannia did smile,
Then Shakspeare, and Milton, and Waller ap
peard, 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
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.
WHEN home I return'd from the dancing last
“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
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 you I know his style ;
I 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.