To that fair Sex we are oblig’d to day,
Oh! then be kind to a poor Orphan-Play,
Whose Parent while she liv’d oblig’d you all;
You prais’d her living, and you mourn’d her Fall.
Who cou’d, like her, our softer Passions move,
The Life of Humour, and the Soul of Love?
Wit’s eldest Sister; thro-out every Line,
You might perceive some Female Graces shine.
For poor Astrea’s Infant we implore,
Let it then live, though she is now no more.