Enquiry after Peace. A Fragment. Anne Finch (née Kingsmill), countess of Winchilsea Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T94539 pp. 274-5 K076314.000 Winchilsea, Anne Kingsmill Finch, Countess of, 1661-1720. Miscellany poems, on several occasions: Written by the Right Honble Anne, Countess of Winchilsea. London printed for J. B. and sold by Benj. Tooke, William Taylor, and James Round 1713 pp. 154-156. [8],390p. ; 8⁰.

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Enquiry after Peace . A Fragment . PEACE ! where art thou to be found ? Where , in all the spacious Round , May thy Footsteps be pursu'd ? Where may thy calm Seats be view'd ? On some Mountain dost thou lie , Serenely near the ambient Sky , Smiling at the Clouds below , Where rough Storms and Tempests grow ? Or , in some retired Plain , Undisturb'd dost thou remain ? Where no angry Whirlwinds pass , Where no Floods oppress the Grass . High above , or deep below , Fain I thy Retreat wou'd know . Fain I thee alone wou'd find , Balm to my o'er-weary'd Mind . Since what here the World enjoys , Or our Passions most employs , Peace opposes , or destroys . Pleasure's a tumultuous thing , Busy still , and still on Wing ; Flying swift , from place to place , Darting from each beauteous Face ; From each strongly mingled Bowl Through th' inflam'd and restless Soul . Sov'reign Pow'r who fondly craves , But himself to Pomp enslaves ; Stands the Envy of Mankind , Peace , in vain , attempts to find . Thirst of Wealth no Quiet knows , But near the Death-bed siercer grows ; Wounding Men with secret Stings , For Evils it on Others brings . War who not discreetly shuns , Thorough Life the Gauntlet runs . Swords , and Pikes , and Waves , and Flames , Each their Stroke against him aims . Love ( if such a thing there be ) Is all Despair , or Extasie . Poetry's the feav'rish Fit , Th' o'erslowing of unbounded Wit . &c .