To the Countess of Abingdon

If to commend and raise true Vertue high,
To fix it's Station in the Starry sky,
To cloath it gay and make it flourish long,
Be the best subject for a Poet's Song;
Then, Madam, I may hope you will excuse
This dutiful presumption of the Muse:
For since in that bright track so far y'ave gone,
And with unweary'd swiftness still keep on:
Something we ought to your vast Merit raise;
What all Mankind admires, 'twere impious not to praise.
Long the fair Sex under reproach have lain,
And felt a general, oft a just disdain:
But you redeem their Fame; in you we find
What Excellence there is in Womankind!
Of some bright Dames w'have been by Poets told,
Whose Breasts were Alabaster, Hair of Gold,
Whose Eyes were Suns, able to guide the day,
In which ten thousand Cupids basking lay,
And on their Lips did all the Graces play:
Flow'rs sprouted, and th' obsequious Winds did bring
Arabian Odours and around 'em fling;
Where e're they came 'twas everlasting spring!
Their Voices ev'n the Rivers stopt to hear;
Not singing Angels, when they tun'd a sphere,
Made softer Musick, or more charm'd the Ear!
This we thought Fiction all; but, seeing You,
We own 'tis possible it might be true.
So finely temper'd, and so nobly form'd,
With so much sweetness, so much Grace adorn'd!
If ought like Angels we can see below,
It is to You that Happiness we owe!
None sees you that, unwounded, can retire,
He knows his errour, but he must admire:
Yet though he loves, he dare not hope your Grace,
For your chast heart is spotless like your Face.
Had you but liv'd in the blest days of old,
What Stories had the Antick Poets told?
It had been doubly then an Age of Gold:
The Goddesses had (though in Beauty rare)
No more contended which had been the Fair,
But with a joint consent resign'd the Ball,
Asham'd your Lustre shou'd eclipse 'em all.
Succeeding Times (for they shall know your Fame)
Will have just Cause to celebrate your Name;
Blest with a noble Issue, 'tis your doom
For this Age to provide, and that to come:
Those Beautys then shall shine, now in their Spring,
And the then Poets of their Praises sing,
Like you in every outward Gift compleat;
And may, ye Gods! their Vertues be as great:
A Race of Hero's too that Age shall know,
Who by their Deeds will their Extraction show,
Add lasting Honours to the Bertie's Fame,
And with fresh Laurels crown that Noble Name.
Happy the Children sprung from vertuous Wives;
Thrice happy those to whom that Fate arrives!
The bright Example, through Life's vitious maze,
Does guide 'em in the path that leads to praise.
A Vertuous Wife! but such, alas! there's few,
And in the Van your Merit places you.
A Vertuous Wife! which who e're does attain,
Has got the chiefest good, the richest gain,
No greater Blessing can the Gods bestow
When they'd oblige a Favourite below.
A Vertuous Wife! which Heav'n and Earth regards,
And Heav'n and Earth, too, bounteously rewards;
For she'l in both Worlds meet the highest doom,
Honour in this, Glory in that to come.