This amiable young lady, who has been happy in the praises of Dryden, was daughter of Dr. Henry Killegrew, master of the Savoy, and one of the prebendaries of Westminster. She was born in St. Martin's-Lane in London, a little before the restoration of King Charles II. and was christened in a private chamber, the offices of the Common prayer not being then publickly allowed. She gave the earliest discoveries of a great genius, which being improved by the advantage of a polite education, she became eminent in the arts of poetry and painting, and had her life been prolonged, she might probably have excelled most of the prosession in both[1]. Mr. Dryden is quite lavish in her praise; and we are assured by other cotemporary writers of good probity, that he has done no violence to truth in the most heightened strains of his panegyric: let him be voucher for her skill in poetry. Art she had none, yet wanted none, For nature did that art supply, So rich in treasures of her own, She might our boasted stores defy; Such noble vigour did her verse adorn, That it seem'd borrow'd, where 'twas only born. That great poet is pleased to attribute to her every poetical excellence. Speaking of the purity and chastity of her compositions, he bestows on them this commendation, Her Arethusian stream remains unsoil'd, } Unmix'd with foreign filth and undefil'd; } Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child. } She was a great proficient in the art of painting, and drew King James II, and his Queen; which pieces are also highly applauded by Mr. Dryden. She drew several history pieces, also some portraits for her diversion, exceeding well, and likewise some pieces of still life. Those engaging and polite accomplishments were the least of her perfections; for she crowned all with an exemplary piety, and unblemished virtue. She was one of the maids of honour to the Duchess of York, and died of the small-pox in the very flower of her age, to the unspeakable grief of her relations and acquaintance, on the 16th day of June 1685, in her 25th year. On this occasion, Mr. Dryden's muse put on a mournful habit, and in one of the most melting elegiac odes that ever was written, has consigned her to immortality. In the eighth stanza he does honour to another female character, whom he joins with this sweet poetess. Now all those charms, that blooming grace, The well-proportion'd shape, and beauteous face, Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes; In earth, the much lamented virgin lies! Not wit, nor piety could fate prevent; Nor was the cruel destiny content To finish all the murder at a blow, To sweep at once her life, and beauty too; But like a hardened felon took a pride To work more mischievously flow, And plundered first, and then destroy'd. O! double sacrilege, on things divine, To rob the relique, and deface the shrine! But thus Orinda died;