To the Lady Dursley, on the Same Subject

HERE reading how fond Adam was betray'd ;
And how by Sin Eve's blasted Charms decay'd ;
Our common Loss unjustly You complain ;
So small that Part of it, which You sustain.

You still, fair Mother, in your Offspring trace
The Stock of Beauty destin'd for the Race :
Kind Nature, forming Them, the Pattern took
From Heav'n's first Work, and Eve's Original Look.

You, happy Saint, the Serpent's Pow'r controul :
Scarce any actual Guilt defiles your Soul :
And Hell does o'er that Mind vain Triumph boast.
Which gains a Heav'n, for Earthly Eden lost.

With Virtue strong as Your's had Eve been arm'd,
In vain the Fruit had blush'd, or Serpent charm'd :
Nor had our Bliss by Penitence been bought :
Nor had frail Adam fall'n, nor Milton wrote.