TO THE MOST EXCELLENTLY ACCOMPLISHED MRS. K. PHILIPS.
Say, witty fair one, from what sphere Flow these rich numbers you shed here? For sure such incantations come From thence, which strike your readers dumb. A strain, whose measures gently meet Like virgin-lovers or Time's feet; Where language smiles, and accents rise As quick and pleasing as your eyes; The poem smooth, and in each line Soft as yourself, yet masculine; Where not coarse trifles blot the page With matter borrow'd from the age, But thoughts as innocent and high As angels have, or saints that die. These raptures when I first did see New miracles in poetry, And by a hand their good would miss His bays and fountains but to kiss, My weaker genius--cross to fashion-- Slept in a silent admiration: A rescue, by whose grave disguise Pretenders oft have pass'd for wise. And yet as pilgrims humbly touch Those shrines to which they bow so much, And clouds in courtship flock, and run To be the mask unto the sun, So I concluded it was true I might at distance worship you, A Persian votary, and say It was your light show'd me the way. So loadstones guide the duller steel, And high perfections are the wheel Which moves the less, for gifts divine Are strung upon a vital line, Which, touch'd by you, excites in all Affections epidemical. And this made me--a truth most fit-- Add my weak echo to your wit; Which pardon, Lady, for assays Obscure as these might blast your bays; As common hands soil flow'rs, and make That dew they wear weep the mistake. But I'll wash off the stain, and vow No laurel grows but for your brow.