Hail, Beauteous _Prophetess_, in whom alone, Of all your sex Heav’ns master-piece is shewn. For wondrous skill it argues, wondrous care, Where two such Stars in firm conjunction are, A Brain so Glorious, and a Face so fair. Two Goddesses in your composure joyn’d, } Nothing but Goddess cou’d, you’re so refin’d, } Bright _Venus_ Body gave, _Minerva_ Mind. } How soft and fine your manly numbers flow, Soft as your Lips, and smooth as is your brow. Gentle as Air, bright as the Noon-days Sky, Clear as your skin, and charming as your Eye. No craggy Precipice the Prospect spoyles, The Eye no tedious barren plain beguiles. But, like _Thessalian_ Feilds your Volumes are, } Rapture and charms o’re all the soyl appear, } _Astrea_ and her verse are _Tempe_ every where. } Ah, more than Woman! more than man she is, As _Phæbus_ bright; she’s too, as _Phæbus_ wise. The Muses to our sex perverse and coy _Astrea_ do’s familiarly enjoy. She do’s their veiled Glorys understand, And what we court with pain, with ease command. Their charming secrets they expanded lay, Reserv’d to us, to her they all display. Upon her Pen await those learned Nine. } She ne’re but like the Phosph’rus draws a line, } As soon as toucht her subjects clearly shine. } The femal Laurels were obscur’d till now, And they deserv’d the Shades in which they grew: But _Daphne_ at your call return’s her flight, Looks boldly up and dares the God of light. If we _Orinda_ to your works compare, } They uncouth, like her countrys soyle, appear, } Mean as its Pesants, as its Mountains bare: } _Sappho_ tasts strongly of the sex, is weak and poor, } At second hand she russet Laurels wore, } Yours are your own, a rich and verdant store. } If Loves the Theme, you out-do _Ovid’s_ Art, } Loves God himself can’t subtiller skill impart, } Softer than’s plumes, more piercing than his Dart. } If _Pastoral_ be her Song, she glads the Swains With Livelier notes, with spritelier smiles the plains. More gayly than the Springs she decks the Bowrs And breaths a second _May_ to Fields and Flowrs. If e’re the golden Age again return And flash in shining Beames from’s Iron Urn, That Age not as it was before shall be, But as th’ Idea is refin’d by thee. That seems the common; thines the Elixir, Gold, So pure is thine, and so allay’d the old.