Reader, dost ask, What Work we here display? What fair and Novel Piece salutes the Day? Know, that a Virgin bright this POEM writ, A Grace for Beauty, and a Muse for Wit! Who, when none higher in Loves Courts might sway, Despis'd the Mertile, for the nobler Bay! Nor could Apollo or Minerva tell, Whither her Pen or Pencil did excel! But while these Pow'rs laid both to her their Claime, Behold, a Matron of a Heavenly Frame, Antique, but Great and Comely in her Meen, Upon whose gorgeous Robe inscrib'd was seen } Divine Vertue, took her from both away, } And thus with Anger and Disdain did say, } Of Me she Learn'd, with You she did but Play.
To the Pious Memory
Of the Accomplisht Young LADY
Mrs Anne Killigrew,
Excellent in the two Sister-Arts of Poësie, and Painting.
An ODE.
I.
Thou Youngest Virgin-Daughter of the Skies, Made in the last Promotion of the Blest; Whose Palmes, new pluckt from Paradise, In spreading Branches more sublimely rise, Rich with Immortal Green above the rest: Whether, adopted to some Neighbouring Star, Thou rol'st above us, in thy wand'ring Race, Or, in Procession fixt and regular, Mov'd with the Heavens Majestick Pace; Or, call'd to more Superiour Bliss, Thou tread'st, with Seraphims, the vast Abyss. What ever happy Region be thy place, Cease thy Celestial Song a little space; (Thou wilt have Time enough for Hymns Divine, Since Heav'ns Eternal Year is thine.) Hear then a Mortal Muse thy Praise rehearse, In no ignoble Verse; But such as thy own voice did practise here, When thy first Fruits of Poesie were giv'n; To make thy self a welcome Inmate there: While yet a young Probationer, And Candidate of Heav'n.
II.
If by Traduction came thy Mind, Our Wonder is the less to find A Soul so charming from a Stock so good; Thy Father was transfus'd into thy Blood: So wert thou born into the tuneful strain, (An early, rich, and inexhausted Vain.) But if thy Præexisting Soul Was form'd, at first, with Myriads more, It did through all the Mighty Poets roul, Who Greek or Latine Laurels wore. And was that Sappho last, which once it was before. If so, then cease thy flight, O Heav'n-born Mind! Thou hast no Dross to purge from thy Rich Ore. } Nor can thy Soul a fairer Mansion find, } Than was the Beauteous Frame she left behind: } Return, to fill or mend the Quire, of thy Celestial kind.