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'E allow'd you beauty, and we did submit
Ah! cruel fex, will you depofe us too in wit?
Does man behind her in proud triumph draw,
We our old title plead in vain,
Man may be head, but woman 's now the brain.
In Beauty's camp it was not known;
Orinda first did a bold fally make,
And fo fuccefsful prov'd, that the
Women, as if the body were their whole,
If in it fometime they conceiv'd,
Th' abortive iffue never liv'd.
Twere fhame and pity', Orinda, if in thee
* Mrs. Catharine Philips.
A fpirit fo rich, so noble, and so high,
Should unmanur'd or barren lie.
But thou induftriously haft fow'd and till'd
And 'tis a strange increase that it does yield.
A fecret joy unspeakable does move
In their great mother Cybele's contented breast :
And in their birth thou no one touch doft find,
.Thou bring'ft not forth with pain;
And there is fo much room
In th' unexhausted and unfathom'd womb, That, like the Holland Countefs, thou may'ft bear A child for every day of all the fertile year.
Thou doft my wonder, wouldft my envy, raise, If to be prais'd I lov'd more than to praise : Where'er I fee an excellence,
I must admire to fee thy well-knit sense,
Thy numbers gentle, and thy fancies high;
Thofe as thy forehead smooth, these sparkling as thine
'Tis folid, and 'tis manly all,
Or rather 'tis angelical;
For, as in angels, we
Do in thy verfes fee
Both improv'd fexes eminently meet;
They are than man more strong, and more than woman: sweet.
They talk of Nine, I know not who,
But have invok'd them oft, I 'm fure, in vain ::
That, like a lantern's fair inclofed light,
And, as the Roman victory
Taught our rude land arts and civility,
At once the overcomes, enflaves, and betters, men..
But Rome with all her arts could ne'er infpire,
Who in Elyfium now do peaceful reign,
Merlin the feer (and fure he would not lye,
In fuch a facred company)
Does prophecies of learn'd Orinda show,
Forgets her own misfortune and difgrace,
And to her injur'd daughters now does boast,. That Rome 's o'ercome at last, by a woman of her race.
UPON OCCASION OF A COPY OF VERSES
OF MY LORD BROGHILL'S.
E gone (faid I) ingrateful Muse! and fee
Since I grew man, and wifer ought to be,
But fay, ingrateful mistress! say,
What for all this, what didft thou ever pay?
Because I have no vineyard there.
Well: but in love thou dost pretend to reign;
Thou bad'ft me write, and write, and write again;
I, like a fool, did thee obey :
I wrote, and wrote, but ftill I wrote in vain ;
Thus I complain'd, and strait the Mufe reply'd,
Bounty immenfe ! and that too must be try'd
Who now, what reader does not strive
All draw upon him, all around,
And every part of him they wound,
Happy the man that gives the deepest blow:
And out at window threw,
Ovid and Horace, all the chiming crew;
When (see the subtle ways which Fate docs find,
Rebellious man to bind !
Just to the work for which he is affign'd).