TO THE MOST EXCELLENT PRINCESSE THE DUTCHESSE OF NEWCASTLE.
MY Muse beggs pardon of your Grace, that she
Meets not an Epithet in Poetry
Which is yet Virgin; It sullies but your worth
When common words presume to blaze it forth,
As those of Fair, and Good, with such as these
Your meaner Meritt's lull'd in Extasies.
Could I uncase the Chaste Lucretia's Soul,
Compar'd with yours it would appear but foul:
Or could I turn a Chymist, and from thence
Distill all Venus into Quintessence;
Of that extract the most sublime, and pure
Onely deserves to shade your Portraicture.
Nature in your rich frame has run out all
The Stock, and Credit of her Principall,
Be charitable and lend her a recruit,
For your Perfections made her Bankerout.
She cannot run so deep upon the score,
But you have merit yet can furnish more.
In you is summ'd up all which Nature can
Glory (of Worth) in it's Perfection.
What since sh' has moulded, onely Copyes were
Of those fair Graces which concenter'd are
In You, from whom she now must borrow all
She boasts of here, as from th' Original,
The Graces arn't alone, th' Sciences too
The Honour have to be refin'd by You.
What cunning Aristotle darkly writ,
As with intent to Vizard-mask his wit;
Your Grace had drawn the Curtain, and we see
Into each crevice of his subtlety:
I dare presume he would your Grace should know
Henceforth he'l walk no more Incognito.
The Conclave of the Muses next do own,
To You, the Honour due to Helicon.
The Poets too, 'mongst whom Ben humbly layes
At your fair feet his late usurped Bayes:
For such he needs must call them, when to You,
And to your matchlesse Muse they are onely due.
Orpheus does press me hard, but to present
Unto your Grace his sullen Instrument:
For since Y' have grac't that Science w'th your hand,
He vows he never could a Charme command.
The residue of the Sciences would
Wait on your Grace did you not think them bold:
For without leave it may be thought no lesse
Then an Intrusion on their Patronesse;
Waiting that Honour with your Poet stand,
And humbly beg to kisse your Graces hand.
With Allowance,
Apr. 27.
R. L' Estrange.
LONDON: Printed by Sarah Griffin, 1667.