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 ...
Ah me! full sorely doth it rend my heart,
O! Pessimus, my veteran friend, to view
Thy time--worn front, and curls of yellow hue,
And think, how soon unpowder'd we must part!
And much it grieves me that thy brothers twain,
Malus and Pejor (both the offspring fair
Of Orchard's plastic hand) thy fate must share,
Nor graceful wave their mealy locks again!
Yet doth my soul a secret solace find,