Curst be the balefull Tongue that dares abuse The rightfull offspring of her God-like Muse: And doubly Curst be he that thinks her Pen Can be instructed by the best of men. The times to come (as surely she will live, As many Ages as are past, As long as Learning, Sense, or wit survive, As long as the first principles of Bodies last.) The future Ages may perhaps believe One soft and tender Arm cou’d ne’er atchieve The wonderous deeds that she has done So hard a prize her Conqu’ring Muse has won. But we that live in the great Prophetesses days Can we enough proclaim her praise, We that experience every hour The blest effects of her Miraculous power? To the sweet Musick of her charming tongue, In numerous Crowds the ravisht hearers throng: And even a Herd of Beasts as wild as they That did the _Thracian_ Lyre obey, Forget their Madness and attend her song. The tunefull Shepherds on the dangerous rocks Forsake their Kinds and leave their bleating Flocks, And throw their tender Reeds away, As soon as e’er her softer Pipe begins to play. No barren subject, no unfertile soil Can prove ungratefull to her Muses Toil, Warm’d with the Heavenly influence of her Brain, Upon the dry and sandy plain, On craggy Mountains cover’d o’er with Snow, The blooming Rose and fragrant Jes’min grow: When in her powerful Poetick hand, She waves the mystick wand, Streight from the hardest Rocks the sweetest numbers flow. IV.