To the Admir'd ASTREA.
I Never mourn'd my Want of Wit, 'till now;
That where I do so much Devotion vow,
Brightest Astrea, to your honour'd Name,
Find my Endeavour will become my Shame.
'Tis you alone, who have the Art, and Wit
T' involve those Praises in the Lines y'have writ,
That we should give you, could we have the Sp'rite,
Vigour, and Force, wherewith your self do write.
Too mean are all th' Applauses we can give:
You in your self, and by your self, shall live;
When all we write will only serve to shew,
How much, in vain Attempt, we flag below.
Some Hands write some things well; are elsewhere lame:
But on all Theams, your Power is the same.
Of Buskin, and of Sock, you know the Pace;
And tread in both, with equal Skill and Grace,
But when you write of Love, Astrea, then
Love dips his Arrows, where you wet your pen.
Such charming Lines did never Paper grace;
Soft, as your Sex; and smooth, as Beauty's Face.
And 'tis your Province, that belongs to you:
Men are so rude, they fright when they wou'd sue
You teach us gentler Methods; such as are
The fit and due Proceedings with the Fair.
But why should you, who can so well create,
So stoop, as but pretend, you do translate?
Could you, who have such a luxuriant Vein,
As nought but your own Judgment could restrain;
Who are, your self, of Poesie the Soul,
And whose brave fancy knocks at either Pole;
Descend so low, as poor Translation, }
To make an Author, that before was none? }
Oh! Give us, henceforth, what is all your own! }
Yet we can trace you here, in e'ery Line;
The Texture's good, but some Threds are too fine:
We see where you let in your Silver Springs;
And know the Plumes, with which you imp his Wings.
But I'm too bold to question what you do,
And yet it is my Zeal that makes me so.
Which, in a Lover, you'll not disapprove:
I am too dull to write, but I can love.
Charles Cotton.
To the Incomparable Author.
While this poor Homage of our Verse we give,
We own, at least, your just Prerogative:
And tho' the Tribute's needless, which we pay;
It serves to shew, you reign, and we obey.
Which, adding nothing to your perfect Store,
Yet makes your polisht Numbers shine the more:
As Gems in Foils, are with Advantage shown;
No Lustre take from them, but more exert their own.
Male Wits, from Authors of a former Date, }
Copy Applause; and but at best, translate; }
While you, like the immortal Pow'rs, Create. }
Horace and Pindar (tho' attempted long }
In vain) at last, have learnt the British Tongue; }
Not so the Grecian Female Poet's Song. }
The Pride of Greece we now out-rival'd see:
Greece boasts one Sappho; two Orinda's, we.
But what unheard Applause shall we impart
To this most new, and happy piece of Art?
That renders our Apollo more sublime }
In Num'rous Prose, but yet more num'rous Rhime; }
And makes the God of Love, the God of Time. }
Love's wandring Planet, you have made a Star:
'Twas bright before, but now 'tis Regular.
While Love shall last, this Engine needs must vend: }
Each Nymph, this Watch shall to her Lover send, }
That points him out his Hours, and how those Hours to spend. }