Man: Permit but my Zeal for Your Lordship to attone for the rest of my Faults, and Your Lordship will extremely oblige, My Lord, Your Lordship’s most Humble, and most Obedient Servant, _A. BEHN._ To Mrs. BEHN, on the publishing her Poems. _Madam,_ Long has Wit’s injur’d Empire been opprest By Rhiming Fools, this Nations common Jest, And sunk beneath the _weight_ of heavy _stafes_, In _Tory Ballads_ and _Whig Epitaphs_; The _Ogs_ and _Doegs_ reign’d, nay _Baxter’s_ zeal, Has not been wanting too in writing _Ill_; Yet still in spight of what the dull can doe, ‘Tis here _asserted_ and _adorn’d_ by you. This Book come forth, their credit must decay, Ill Spirits vanish at th’approach of day: And justly we before your envy’d _feet_, There where our _Hearts_ are due our _Pens_ submit; Ne’er to resume the baffled things again, Unless in Songs of _Triumph_ to thy Name; Which are out-done by every _Verse_ of thine, } Where thy own _Fame_ does with more lustre shine, } Than all that we can give who in thy _Praises_ join. } Fair as the face of Heaven, when no thick _Cloud_ Or darkning _Storm_ the glorious prospect shroud; In all its beauteous parts shines thy bright style, And beyond Humane Wit commends thy skill; With all the _thought_ and _vigour_ of our Sex The moving _softness_ of your own you mix. The _Queen_ of Beauty and the _God_ of Wars } Imbracing lie in thy due temper’d Verse, } _Venus_ her sweetness and the force of _Mars_. } Thus thy luxuriant Muse her pleasure takes, As _God_ of old in _Eden’s_ blissful walks; The Beauties of her new Creation view’d, Full of content She sees that it is _good_. Come then you inspir’d _Swains_ and join your Verse, Though all in vain to add a Fame to hers; But then your Song will best _Apollo_ please, When it is fraight with this his _Favourite’s_ praise. Declare how when her learned Harp she strung, Our joyfull _Island_ with the Musick rung; Descending _Graces_ left their Heavenly seat, To take their place in every Line she writ; Where sweetest Charms as in her Person smile, Her Face’s Beauty’s copy’d in her style. Say how as she did her just skill improve In the best Art and in soft Tales of Love. Some well sung Passion with success she crown’d, The melting Virgins languish’d at the sound. And envying Swains durst not the Pipe inspire, They’d nothing then to doe but to _admire_. _Shepherds_ and _Nymphs_, to _Pan_ direct-your Prayer, } If peradventure he your Vows will hear, } To make you _sing_, and make you _look_ like her. }