To Madam Beaw. Occasion'd by a Copy of Verses of my Lady Ann Bainton's

As when the Blest up to their Heav'n are gone,
And put their Fadeless Wreaths of Laurel on,
How are they pleas'd to hear their Vertues there
A Theme for Angels songs that met Reproaches here?
No less amaz'd, nor less with Rapture fraught,
Rais'd above Earth with the exalted thought,
I stood, to hear my Praise, contemn'd by Men,
Employ our Beauteous Adorissa's Pen!
All that we Merit we but think our due,
So but bare satisfaction can ensue;
And Blessings hop'd for half the Bliss destroy,
For ev'n the Expectation palls the Joy;
But when unthought of, undeserv'd, they come,
They give us transport, and they strike it home!
So she, like Heav'n, does her Rewards impart,
Which fly beyond the Bounds of all desert.
I now may boast I have Eternity;
For, sure, what she does write can never dy:
Her Beauty may, perhaps, to Time submit,
But Time must fall a Trophy to her Wit.
Beneath her shelter, like a Shrub, I ly,
And, safe intrench't, the envious Men defy;
While, like the Mountain Cedar, she surveys
The Plain, and whom she please does Crown with Bays:
They cannot reach to her, nor dare reject
(To her high worth preserving their respect)
What she has deign'd, to like and to protect.
But while her Wit is in our Praises shown,
Why is she so forgetful of her own?
Why honour others, and neglect the claim
To her undoubted Right, Immortal Fame?
'Tis therefore, Fair One, that these lines you see,
That on this subject you may join with me:
You can both write, and judge of what is writ,
A Priestess of the Mysteries of Wit,
Though her own Modesty won't soar on high,
But clips the Wings with which her praise shou'd fly,
Our Gratitude must not with that comply:
We shou'd, how e'r, attempt to do her right;
The subject will instruct us to indite.
Does not her Form, which we with Joy behold,
Transcend Fictitious Goddesses of old?
Yet Matchless though her Beauty be, her smile
Is not more sweet and lively than her stile;
Her Eyes themselves have not more moving charms,
And ev'n her Love not more Divinely warms!
Sure from her Godlike Sire her Genius came,
Who living warm'd three Nations with his Flame:
She, Phenix-like, soars from his Urn aloft,
Her Flight as steady, and her Plumes as soft.
Here we shou'd all her other Gifts declare;
(For of all else she has as great a share)
Her Piety, unblemisht Love and Truth,
A Converse fin'd from all the Dross of Youth;
A Faith unsully'd to the Nuptial Bed,
And strict Obedience to her lawful head.
On Marriage do depend our Peace of Life,
Our greatest good or ill springs from a Wife,
Eternal Comfort! or eternal strife!
Eternal Comfort, then, is Damon's Lot:
But where one has it, Millions have it not.
He only cou'd deserve so great a good,
Who in the Bud the Flower understood,
And knew to what advantage 'twou'd be shown,
When Spring was come, and all its Glories blown.
A hundred Seasons may the Gods allow
This Blessing to him, and she fair as now.
But O! what Pen or Pencil can we find
Able to paint the Beauties of her mind?
Which open'd to our view diffuse around
A Flood of lustre that does sight confound,
Forces the Muse her airy flight to stay,
Which here must stop, or else must lose her way.
So when from Heav'n (and brighter than the Sun)
A sudden Glory round th' Apostle shon,
Too much refulgence did oppress his sight,
And he fell blind amid'st the blaze of light.