I.
AFRAID to be pleas’d, and with envy half fir’d,
Still wishing to blame, while by force I admir’d,
New beauties appearing as farther I read,
At last in a rage to Apollo I said:
II.
Oh thou whom the lean tribe of authors adore!
And proud of thy gifts, are content to be poor;
Say, why must a peeress thus put in her claim,
For the poet’s poor airy inheritance, fame?
III.
Needs that brow which a coronet circles be bound
With the wreath that your glorious starv’d fav’rites have crown’d.
Why should she who at ease in gilt chariots may ride,
Our tir’d Pegasus mount, and so skilfully guide?
IV.
With Gallia’s rich vintage, her thirst she may slake,
Then why such large draughts from our Helicon take?
And blest here with corn-fields, and meadows, and pastures,
Has she need of grants in the realm of Parnassus?
V.
Thus I: nor to answer Apollo disdain’d,
My Stella from fortune those trifles obtain’d;
In wit I decreed her supremely to shine,
When were titles and riches suppos’d gifts of mine?
But your clamours to stop, and your anger to tame,
She shall smile on your works, and her praise shall be fame.