To the Right Honourable Alice Countess of Carbury, on her enriching Wales with her Presence.

AS when the first day dawn'd Man's greedy Eye
Was apt to dwell on the bright Prodigy,
Till he might careless of his Organ grow,
And so his wonder prove his danger too:
So when your Countrey (which was deem'd to be
Close-mourner in its own obscurity,
And in neglected Chaos so long lay)
Was rescu'de by your beams into a Day,
Like men into a sudden lustre brought,
We justly fear'd to gaze more then we ought.

From hence it is you lose most of your Right,
Since none can pay 't, nor durst doe 't if they might.
Perfection's misery 'tis that Art and Wit,
While they would honour, do but injure it.
But as the Deity slights our Expence,
And loves Devotion more then Eloquence:
So 'tis our Confidence you are Divine,
Makes us at distance thus approach your Shrine.
And thus secur'd, to you who need no art,
I that speak least my wit may speak my heart.

Then much above all zealous injury,
Receive this tribute of our shades from me,
While your great Splendour, like eternal Spring,
To these sad Groves such a refreshment bring,
That the despised Countrey may be grown,
And justly too, the Envy of the Town.
That so when all Mankind at length have lost
The Vertuous Grandeur which they once did boast,
Of you like Pilgrims they may here obtain
Worth to recruit the dying world again.