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The Virgin.

HE Things that make a Virgin please, She that feeks, will find them thefe; A Beauty not to Art in debt, Rather Agreeable, than Gr An Eye wherein at once do meet The Beams of Kindness, and of W An undiffembl'd Innocence, Apt not to give, nor take Offenc A Converfation, at once free From Paflion, and from Subtilty A Face that's modeft, yet ferene, A fober, and yet lively Mien; The Virtue which does her Adorn, By Honour guarded, not by Scorn: With fuch wife Lowlinefs indu'd, As never can be mean, or rude; Whom prudent Negligence does enrich, And times her Silence, and her Speech; Whofe equal Mind does always move, Neither a Foe, nor Slave to Love, And whofe Religion's ftrong and plain, Not fuperftitious, nor prophane.

Mrs. Philips




Virtue, dear Friend, needs no Defence,
No Arms, but its own Innocence;
Quivers and Bows, and poifon'd Darts,
Are only us'd by guilty Hearts.


An honeft Mind, fafely alone, May travel thro the burning Zone, Or thro the deepest Scythian Snows, Or where the fam'd Hydafpes flows.


While (rul'd by a refiftless Fire)
Our Great Orinda I admire,

The hungry Wolves, that fee me ftray
Unarm'd and fingle, run away.


Set me in the remoteft place,
That ever Neptune did embrace,
When there her Image fills my Breaft,
Helicon is not half fo bleft.

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Leave me upon fome Lybian Plain,
So the my Fancy entertain,

And when the thirsty Monsters meet,
They'll all
pay Homage to my Feet.


The Magick of Orinda's Name,

Not only can their Fierceness tame,

But if that mighty Word I once rehearse,
They feem fubmiffively to roar in Verfe.

Earl of Rofcommon to Mrs Philips, call'd Orinda

in Imitation of Horace. Integer Vitæ,&c.Ode 22.lib.8.


The Story of Phoebus and Daphine applied.

THirfis, a Youth of the infpired Train,

Fair Sacharia lov'd, but lov'd in vain:
Like Phoebus fung the no lefs am'rous Boy;
Like Daphne the, as lovely and as coy :
With Numbers he the flying Nymph pursues,
With Numbers fuch as Phoebus felf might ufe.
Such is the Chace, when Love and Fancy leads,
O'er craggy Mountains, and thro flow'ry Meads;
Invok'd to teftify the Lover's Care,

Or form fome Image of his crual Fair;
Urg'd with his Fury like a wounded Deer,
O'er thefe he fled, and now approaching near,
Had reach'd the Nymph with his harmonious Lay,
Whom all his Charms cou'd not incline to stay;
Yet what he fung in his immortal Strain,
Tho unfuccefsful, was not fung in vain;
All but the Nymph, that fhou'd redress his Wrong,
Attend his Paffion, and approve his Song.

Like Phoebus thus, acquiring unfought Praife,
He catch'd at Love, and fill'd his Arms with Bays.
Mr. Waller


On my Lady Isabella playing on the Lute.

Uch moving Sounds, from fuch a careless Touch,
So unconcern'd herself, and we fo much;

What Art is this, that with fo little Pains,
Transports us thus, and o'er our Spirits reigns!

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The trembling Strings about her Fingers crowd,
And tell their Joy for every Kifs aloud:

Small Force there needs to make them tremble fo,
Touch'd by that Hand, who would not tremble too?
Here Love takes ftand, and while fhe charms the Ear,
Empties his Quiver on the lift'ning Deer;
Mulick fo foftens and difarms the Mind,
That not an Arrow does Refiftance find.
Thus the fair Tyrant celebrates the Prize,
And acts herself the Triumph of her Eyes.
So Nero once, with Harp in Hand, furvey'd
His flaming Rome, and as it burnt, he play'd.



A Defeription of King Saul's two Daughters.

SAal's Royal Houfe two beaut'ous Daughters grac'd, Merab the firft, Michal the younger nam'd, Both equally for different Glories fam'd. Merab with fpacious Beauty fill'd the Sight, But too much Awe chaftis'd the bold Delight. Like a calm Sea, which to th' enlarged View, Gives Pleasure, but gives Fear and Rev'rence too. Michal's tweet Looks clear and free Joys did move, And no lefstrong, tho much more gentle Love; Like virtuous Kings whom Men rejoice t'obey, Tyrants themfelves lefs abfolute than they. Merab appear'd like fome fair Princely Tower, Michal fome Virgin Queen's delicious Bower. All Beauties Stores in Little and in Great; But the contracted Beams fhot fierceft Heat.



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Of a Lady who writ in Praife of Mira.

HILE fhe pretends to make the Graces known, Of matchlefs Mira, fhe reveals her own; And when the wou'd another's Praife indite, Is by her Glafs inftructed how to write.



Under a Lady's Picture.

UCH Helen was; and who can blame the Boy,
That in fo bright a Flame confum'd his Troy?
But had like Virtue fhin'd in that fair Greek,
The am'rous Shepherd had not dar'd to feek,
Or hope for Pity, but with filent Moan,
And better Fate, had perished alone.



To a Lady finging a Song of his Compofing.

CHloris, your felf you fo excel,

When you vouchfafe to breath my Thought,

That like a Spirit with this Spell

Of my own Teaching I am caught.

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