To the Lady D

MADAM,
The blushes I betray,
When at your feet I humbly lay
These papers, beg you would excuse
Th' obedience of a bashful Muse,
Who, bowing to your strict command,
Trusts her own errors to your hand,
Hasty abortives, which, laid by,
She meant, ere they were born should die:
But since the soft power of your breath
Hath call'd them back again from Death,
To your sharp judgement now made known,
She dares for hers no longer own;
The worst she must not, these resign'd
She hath to th' fire, and where you find
Those your kind Charity admir'd,
She writ but what your eyes inspir'd.