To Ovid's HEROINES in his Epistles

BRight Shees, what Glories had your Names acquir'd,
Had you consum'd those whom your Beauties fir'd,
Had laugh'd to see them burn, and so retir'd:

Then they cou'd ne'er have glory'd in their shames,
Either to Roman, or to English Dames,
Had you but warm'd, not melted in their flames.

You'd not been wrack'd then on despair's rough coast,
Nor yet by storms of Perjuries been toss'd,
Had you but fix'd your flowing Love with Frost.

Had you put on the Armour of your scorn,
(That Gem which do's our Beauties most adorn)
What hardy Hero durst have been forsworn.

But since they found such lenity in you,
Their crime so Epidemical do's grow,
That all have, or do, or would be doing so.