‘Twas vain for Man the Laurels to persue, (E’en from the God of Wit bright _Daphne_ flew) Man, Whose course compound damps the Muses fire, It does but touch our Earth and soon expire; While in the softer kind th’.therial flame, Spreads and rejoices as from Heaven it came: This _Greece_ in _Sappho_, in _Orinda_ knew Our Isle; though they were but low types to you; But the faint dawn to your illustrious day, To make us patient of your brighter Ray. Oft may we see some wretched story told; In ductile sense spread thin as leaves of Gold. You have ingrost th’inestimable Mine; } Which in well polisht Numbers you refine, } While still the solid Mass shines thick in every Line. } Yet neither sex do you surpass alone, } Both in your Verse are in their glory shown, } Both _Phæbus_ and _Minerva_ are your own. } While in the softest dress you Wit dispense, With all the Nerves of Reason and of Sense. In mingled Beauties we at once may trace A Female Sweetness and a Manly Grace. No wonder ‘tis the _Delphian_ God of old Wou’d have his Oracles by Women told. But oh! who e’er so sweetly could repeat Soft lays of Love, and youths delightfull heat? If Love’s Misfortunes be your mournfull Theme, No dying Swan on fair _Cayster’s_ stream, Expires so sweet, though with his numerous Moan, The fading Banks and suffering Mountains groan. If you the gentle Passions wou’d inspire, With what resistless Charms you breathe desire? No Heart so savage, so relentless none, As can the sweet Captivity disown: Ah, needs must she th’unwary Soul surprise, Whose Pen sheds Flames as dangerous as her Eyes. _J. Adams._ _To the Authour, on her Voyage to the Island of Love._