Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/319

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COUNTESS OF WINCHILSEA 181 How! quoth the Lord of soaring Fowls, (Whilst horribly she wails and howls) Were then your Progeny but Owls? I thought some Phoenix was their Sire, 70 Who did those charming Looks inspire, That you'd prepar'd me to admire. Upon your self the Blame be laid; My Talons you've to Blood betray'd, And ly'd in every Word you said. Faces or Books, beyond thej,r Worth extolled, Are censured most, and thus to pieces pull THE PHILOSOPHER, THE YOUNG MAN, AND HIS STATUE A Fond Athenian Mother brought A Sculptor to indulge her Thought, And carve her Only Son ; Who to such strange perfection wrought, That every Eye the Statue caught Nor ought was left undone. A youthful Smile adorn' d the Face, The polish gave that Smile a Grace; And through the Marble reigns (Which well the Artist's Skill cou'd trace, And in their due Positions place) A Thread of purple Veins. The Parasites about it came, (Whose Praises were too large to name) And to each other said ; The Man so well had reach' d his Aim, Th' Original cou'd o'er it claim Only a native Red.

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