Long has Wit's injur'd Empire been opprest
By Rhiming Fools, this Nations common Jest,
And sunk beneath the weight of heavy stafes,
In Tory Ballads and Whig Epitaphs;
The Ogs and Doegs reign'd, nay Baxter's zeal,
Has not been wanting too in writing Ill;
Yet still in spight of what the dull can doe,
'Tis here asserted and adorn'd by you.
This Book come forth, their credit must decay,
Ill Spirits vanish at th'approach of day:
And justly we before your envy'd feet,
There where our Hearts are due our Pens submit;
Ne'er to resume the baffled things again,
Unless in Songs of Triumph to thy Name;
Which are out-done by every Verse of thine, }
Where thy own Fame does with more lustre shine, }
Than all that we can give who in thy Praises join. }
Fair as the face of Heaven, when no thick Cloud
Or darkning Storm the glorious prospect shroud;
In all its beauteous parts shines thy bright style,
And beyond Humane Wit commends thy skill;
With all the thought and vigour of our Sex
The moving softness of your own you mix.
The Queen of Beauty and the God of Wars }
Imbracing lie in thy due temper'd Verse, }
Venus her sweetness and the force of Mars. }
Thus thy luxuriant Muse her pleasure takes,
As God of old in Eden's blissful walks;
The Beauties of her new Creation view'd,
Full of content She sees that it is good.
Come then you inspir'd Swains and join your Verse,
Though all in vain to add a Fame to hers;
But then your Song will best Apollo please,
When it is fraight with this his Favourite's praise.
Declare how when her learned Harp she strung,
Our joyfull Island with the Musick rung;
Descending Graces left their Heavenly seat,
To take their place in every Line she writ;
Where sweetest Charms as in her Person smile,
Her Face's Beauty's copy'd in her style.
Say how as she did her just skill improve
In the best Art and in soft Tales of Love.
Some well sung Passion with success she crown'd,
The melting Virgins languish'd at the sound.
And envying Swains durst not the Pipe inspire,
They'd nothing then to doe but to admire.
Shepherds and Nymphs, to Pan direct-your Prayer, }
If peradventure he your Vows will hear, }
To make you sing, and make you look like her. }
But, Nymphs and Swains, your hopes are all in vain,
For such bright Eyes, and such a tunefull Pen.
How many of her Sex spend half their days,
To catch some Fool by managing a Face?
But she secure of charming has confin'd
Her wiser care t'adorn and dress the Mind.
Beauty may fade, but everlasting Verse
Exempts the better portion from the Hearse.
The matchless Wit and Fancy of the Fair,
Which moves our envy and our Sons despair.
Long they shall live a monument of her Fame,
And to Eternity extend her Name;
While After-times deservedly approve
The choicest object of this Ages Love.
For when they reade, ghessing how far she charm'd,
With that bright Body with such Wit inform'd;
They will give heed and credit to our Verse,
When we the Wonders of her Face rehearse.
J. Cooper.
Buckden, Nov. 25.
1683.
To ASTRÆA, on her Poems.
'Tis not enough to reade and to admire, }
Thy sacred Verse does nobler thoughts inspire, }
Striking on every breast Poetick fire: }
The God of Wit attends with chearfull Rays,
Warming the dullest Statue into praise.
Hail then, delight of Heaven and pride of Earth,
Blest by each Muse at thy auspicious birth;
Soft Love and Majesty have fram'd thy Mind,
To shew the Beauties of both Sexes join'd:
Thy Lines may challenge, like young David's face,
A Female Sweetness and a Manly Grace;
Thy tender notions in loose numbers flow,
With a strange power to charm where e'er they go:
And when in stronger sounds thy voice we hear,
At all the skilfull points you arm'd appear.
Which way so'er thou dost thy self express,
We find thy Beauty out in every dress;
Such work so gently wrought, so strongly fine,
Cannot be wrought by hands all Masculine.
In vain proud Man weak Woman wou'd controul,
No Man can argue now against a Woman's Soul.
J. C.
To the excellent Madam Behn, on her Poems.
'Twas vain for Man the Laurels to persue,
(E'en from the God of Wit bright Daphne flew)
Man, Whose course compound damps the Muses fire,
It does but touch our Earth and soon expire;
While in the softer kind th'Ætherial flame,
Spreads and rejoices as from Heaven it came:
This Greece in Sappho, in Orinda knew
Our Isle; though they were but low types to you;
But the faint dawn to your illustrious day,
To make us patient of your brighter Ray.
Oft may we see some wretched story told;
In ductile sense spread thin as leaves of Gold.
You have ingrost th'inestimable Mine; }
Which in well polisht Numbers you refine, }
While still the solid Mass shines thick in every Line. }
Yet neither sex do you surpass alone, }
Both in your Verse are in their glory shown, }
Both Phæbus and Minerva are your own. }
While in the softest dress you Wit dispense,
With all the Nerves of Reason and of Sense.
In mingled Beauties we at once may trace
A Female Sweetness and a Manly Grace.
No wonder 'tis the Delphian God of old
Wou'd have his Oracles by Women told.
But oh! who e'er so sweetly could repeat
Soft lays of Love, and youths delightfull heat?
If Love's Misfortunes be your mournfull Theme,
No dying Swan on fair Cayster's stream,
Expires so sweet, though with his numerous Moan,
The fading Banks and suffering Mountains groan.
If you the gentle Passions wou'd inspire,
With what resistless Charms you breathe desire?
No Heart so savage, so relentless none,
As can the sweet Captivity disown:
Ah, needs must she th'unwary Soul surprise,
Whose Pen sheds Flames as dangerous as her Eyes.
J. Adams.