ALCIDOR. 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. 184-187. [8],390p. ; 8⁰.

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ALCIDOR . WHile Monarchs in stern Battle strove For proud Imperial Sway ; Abandon'd to his milder Love , Within a silent peaceful Grove , Alcidor careless lay . Some term'd it cold , unmanly Fear ; Some , Nicety of Sense , That Drums and Trumpets cou'd not hear , The sullying Blasts of Powder bear , Or with foul Camps dispense . A patient Martyr to their Scorn , And each ill-fashion'd Jest ; The Youth , who but for Love was born , Remain'd , and thought it vast Return , To reign in Cloria's Breast . But oh ! a ruffling Soldier came In all the Pomp of War : The Gazettes long had spoke his Fame ; Now Hautboys his Approach proclaim , And draw in Crouds from far . Cloria unhappily wou'd gaze ; And as he nearer drew , The Man of Feather and of Lace Stopp'd short , and with profound Amaze Took all her Charms to view . A Bow , which from Campaigns he brought , And to his Holsters low , Herself , and the Spectators taught , That Her the fairest Nymph he thought , Of all that form'd the Row . Next day , ere Phoebus cou'd be seen , Or any Gate unbarr'd ; At hers , upon th' adjoining Green , From Ranks , with waving Flags between , Were soften'd Trumpets heard . The Noon do's following Treats provide , In the Pavilion's Shade ; The Neighbourhood , and all beside , That will attend the amorous Pride , Are welcom'd with the Maid . Poor Alcidor ! thy Hopes are cross'd , Go perish on the Ground ; Thy Sighs by stronger Notes are toss'd , Drove back , or in the Passage lost ; Rich Wines thy Tears have drown'd . In Women's Hearts , the softest Things Which Nature cou'd devise , Are yet some harsh , and jarring Strings , That , when loud Fame , or Profit rings , Will answer to the Noise . Poor Alcidor ! go Fight or Dye ; Let thy fond Notions cease : Man was not made in Shades to lie , Or his full Bliss , at ease , enjoy , To Live , or Love in peace .