Talk:Anne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea

• For see! where on the bier before ye lies
  The pale, the fall’n, th’ untimely sacrifice
  To your mistaken shrine, to your false idol Honour.
  • "All is Vanity"

• Nor will in fading silks compose
  Faintly the inimitable rose.
  • "The Spleen"

• Now the Jonquille o’ercomes the feeble brain;
  We faint beneath the aromatic pain.
  • "The Spleen"

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