The Waiting-Maid.

THy Maid? ah, find some nobler theame
Whereon thy doubts to place;
Nor by a low suspect blaspheme
The glories of thy face.

Alas, she makes Thee shine so fair,
So exquisitely bright,
That her dim Lamp must disappear
Before thy potent Light.

Three hours each morn in dressing Thee,
Maliciously are spent;
And make that Beauty Tyrannie,
That's else a Civil Government.

The'adorning thee with so much art,
Is but a barb'arous skill;
'Tis like the poys'oning of a Dart
Too apt before to kill.

The Mini'string Angels none can see;
'Tis not their beauty'or face,
For which by men they worshipt bee;
But their high office and their place.
Thou art my Goddess, my Saint, Shee;
I pray to Her, onely to pray to Thee.