ROTHA, how in numbers light,
Ought I to express thee?
Take my meaning in its flight—
Haste imports not always slight—
And believe, I bless thee.
TO S[ARAH] L[OCKE]
Acrostic
Shall I praise a face unseen,
And extol a fancied mien,
Rave on visionary charm,
And from shadows take alarm?
Hatred hates without a cause;
Love may love, with more applause,
Or, without a reason given,
Charmed be with unknown Heaven.
Keep the secrets, though, unmocked,
Ever in your bosom Locke'd.
TO M[ARY] L[OCKE]
Acrostic
Must I write with pen unwilling
And describe those graces killing
Rightly, which I never saw?
Yes—it is the Album's law.
Let me then Invention strain
On your excelling charms to feign—
Cold is Fiction? I believe it
Kindly, as I did receive it,
Even as J.F.'s tongue did weave it.