Ye bold Magicians in Philosophy, That vainly think (next the Almighty three) The brightest _Cherubin_ in all the Hierarchy Will leave that Glorious Sphere And to your wild inchantments will appear; To the fond summons of fantastick Charms, As Barbarous and inexplicable Terms: As those the trembling Sorcerer dreads, When he the Magick Circle treads: And as he walks the Mystick rounds, And mutters the detested sounds, The _Stygian_ fiends exalt their wrathfull heads; And all ye bearded Drudges of the Schools, That sweat in vain to mend predestin’d fools, With senseless Jargon and perplexing Rules; Behold and with amazement stand, Behold a blush with shame and wonder too, What Divine Nature can in Woman doe. Behold if you can see in all this fertile Land Such an Anointed head, such an inspired hand. II. Rest on in peace, ye blessed Spirits, rest, With Imperial bliss for ever blest: Upon your sacred Urn she scorns to tread, Or rob the Learned Monuments of the dead: Nor need her Muse a foreign aid implore, In her own tunefull breast there’s wonderous store. Had she but flourisht in these times of old, When Mortals were amongst the Gods inrolld, She had not now as Woman been Ador’d, But with Diviner sacrifice Implor’d; Temples and Altars had preserv’d her name And she her self been thought Immortal as her fame. III.