To the Same (Mrs. S.), The Excuse

Nor can your sexes easinesse excuse
Or countenance your teares to be profuse.
Some she's there are, whose breath is onely sighes:
Who weep their own, in others obsequies:
But in the reason, like the Sun at noon,
Dispells usurping clouds of Passion;
Where feminine defects are wanting, there
All Femininee xcuses wanting are;
Think not, since vertue then above them reares
A womans name can priviledge thy teares:
Fortune materiall things onely controwles
But doth her selfe pay homage unto soules:
There hath no power, can do no injurie,
The Pavement where the stars their dances form
By their own Musick, is above all storme:
For Meteors but imperfect mixtures are
In the raw bosome of distemperd aire:
Then let thy soule shine in her Christall spheare,
They're Comets in the troubled air appear.