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Poem by Anne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea
Could our first father, at his toilsome plow, Thorns in his path, and labor on his brow, Clothed only in a rude, unpolished skin, Could he a vain fantastic nymph have seen, In all her airs, in all her antic graces, Her various fashions, and more various faces; How had it posed that skill, which late assigned Just appellations to each several kind! A right idea of the sight to frame; T’have guessed from what new element she came; T’have hit the wav’ring form, or giv’n this thing a name.
Anne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea
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