Anne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea (1661–1720)

Abstract The Spleen: A Pindaric Poem What art thou, spleen, which ev’ry thing dost ape Thou Proteus to abus’d Mankind, Who never yet thy real Cause cou’d find, Or fix thee to remain in one continued Shape. Still varying thy perplexing Form, Now a Dead Sea thou’lt represent, A Calm of stupid Discontent, Then, dashing on the Rocks wilt rage into a Storm. Trembling sometimes thou dost appear, Dissolv’d into a Panick Fear; On Sleep intruding dost thy Shadows spread, Thy gloomy Terrours round the silent Bed, And croud with boading Dreams the Melancholy Head: Or, when the Midnight Hour is told, And drooping Lids thou still dost waking hold, Thy fond Delusions cheat the Eyes, Before them antick Spectres dance, Unusual Fires their pointed Heads advance, And airy Phantoms rise. Such was the monstrous Vision seen, When Brutus (now beneath his Cares opprest, And all Rome’s Fortunes rolling in his Breast, Before Philippi’s latest Field, Before his Fate did to Octavius lead) Was vanquish’d by the Spleen. Falsly, the Mortal Part we blame Of our deprest, and pond’rous Frame, Which, till the First degrading Sin Let Thee, its dull Attendant, in, Still with the Other did comply, Nor clogg’d the Active Soul, dispos’d to fly,