Poem: Adam Posed.

Could our first father, at his toilsome plow
thorns in his path, and labour on his brow,
clothed only in a rude, unpolished skin,
Could he be 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 of the sight to frame;
T’have guessed from what new element she came;
T’have hit the wavering form, or given this thing a name.

                                                 — ANNE FINCH, Countess of Winchilsea (1661-1720)


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