Christopher Anstey Poems
A young Lady of neither Fashion, Taste, nor Spirit.
Oft I've invok'd th' Aönian quire,
And Phoebus oft in vain,
Like thee, my friend, to tune my lyre,
Like thee to raise my strain:
And when of late I sought their aid
The flow'ry bank beside,
Methought, along the silent glade,
I heard a voice that cry'd,
``Mistaken maid! why idly waste
``Your hours in fruitless toil?
``You ne'er the hallow'd brook can taste,
``Or tread poetic soil:
``For since your friend pursues the path
``Where wit and pleasure reigns,
``With her has fled each Muse ...
An Election Ball
Once more, O! ye Muses, from Pindus descend,
And bid all the Graces your footsteps attend,
Who oft at elections are wont to prolong
The keen--pointed epigram, ballad, or song,
With your own odoriferous water to sprinkle
The posie I twine for my dear Mrs. Inkle.
Not launch'd with more glory, more splendour and pride,
The new--tackled bark skims adown the brisk tide,
Her streamers display'd, and the wind in her poop,