But why should you, who can so well create, So stoop, as but pretend, you do translate? Could you, who have such a luxuriant Vein, As nought but your own Judgment could restrain; Who are, your self, of Poesie the Soul, And whose brave fancy knocks at either Pole; Descend so low, as poor Translation, } To make an Author, that before was none? } Oh! Give us, henceforth, what is all your own! } Yet we can trace you here, in e’ery Line; The Texture’s good, but some Threds are too fine: We see where you let in your Silver Springs; And know the Plumes, with which you imp his Wings. But I’m too bold to question what you do, And yet it is my Zeal that makes me so. Which, in a Lover, you’ll not disapprove: I am too dull to write, but I can love. _Charles Cotton._ _To the Incomparable Author._ While this poor Homage of our Verse we give, We own, at least, your just Prerogative: And tho’ the Tribute’s needless, which we pay; It serves to shew, you reign, and we obey. Which, adding nothing to your perfect Store, Yet makes your polisht Numbers shine the more: As Gems in Foils, are with Advantage shown; No Lustre take from them, but more exert their own. Male Wits, from Authors of a former Date, } Copy Applause; and but at best, translate; } While you, like the immortal Pow’rs, Create. } _Horace_ and _Pindar_ (tho’ attempted long } In vain) at last, have learnt the British Tongue; } Not so the Grecian Female Poet’s Song. } The Pride of _Greece_ we now out-rival’d see: _Greece_ boasts one _Sappho_; two _Orinda’s_, we. But what unheard Applause shall we impart To this most new, and happy piece of Art? That renders our _Apollo_ more sublime } In Num’rous Prose, but yet more num’rous Rhime; } And makes the God of Love, the God of Time. } _Love’s_ wandring Planet, you have made a Star: ‘Twas bright before, but now ‘tis _Regular_. While _Love_ shall last, this Engine needs must vend: } Each Nymph, this _Watch_ shall to her Lover send, } That points him out his Hours, and how those Hours to spend. } _N. Tate._ _To the most ingenious_ ASTREA, _upon her Book intituled_, La Môntre, _or the_ Lover’s Watch.