Classic Poem

Madam,
I do not write to you that men may know
How much I'm honour'd that I may do so;
Nor hope (though I your rich example give)
To write with more successe then you can live,
To cure the age; nor thinke I can be just,
Who only dare to write, because I must
I'm full of you, and something must expresse,
To vent my wonder and your power confesse.
Let me then breath in verse, which though undue,
The best would seeme so, when it shaddowes you.
Had I ne're heard of your illustrious name,
Nor known the Scotch or English honour's fame;
Yet if your glorious frame did but appeare,
I could have soon read all your grandeur there
I could have seen in each majestick ray
What greatest Auncestors could e're convey;
And in the lustre of your eyes alone,
How neare you were allied unto a throne.
Which yet doth lessen you, who can not need
Those bright advantages which you exceed.
For you are such, that your descent from Kings
Received more Honour from you then it brings.
As much above their gloryes as our toile,
A court to you were but a handsome foile.
And if we name the stock on which you grew,
'Tis rather to do right to it then you:
For those that would your greatest splendor see,
Must read your soule more then your pedigree.
For as the sacred temple had without,
Beauty to feed those eyes that gaz'd about,
And yet had riches, state and wonder more,
For those that stood within that shining doore;
But in the holy place the admitted few,
Lustre received and inspiracon too:
So though your gloryes in your face be seen,
And so much bright instruction in your meen;
You are not known but where you will impart
The treasures of your more illustrious heart.
Religion all her odours sheds on you,
Who by obliging vindicate her too:
For that rich beame of heaven was allmost
In nice disputes and false pretences lost;
So doubly injur'd, she could scarse subsist
Betwixt the hypocrite and casuist;
Till you by great example did convince
Us of her nature and her residence,
And chose to shew her face, and ease her strife,
Lesse by your arguments then by your life;
Which if it could be coppied out, would be
A solid body of divinitie.
Your principles and practise light would give
What we should do, and what we should believe:
For the extensive knowledge you possesse,
You do acquire with more ease then confesse;
As as by you knowledge hath thus obtain'd
To be refin'd, and then to be explained:
So in returne she usefull is to you,
In practise and in comtemplation too;
For by the various succour she hath lent,
You act with judgment, and thinke with content.
Yet those vast parts with such a temper meet,
That you can lay them at religion's feet;
Nor is it halfe so bold as it is true,
That Vertue is herselfe oblig'd to you:
For being dress'd by your subduing charmes,
She conquers more then did the Roman armes
We see in you how much that malice lyed
That stuck on goodnesse any sullen pride;
And that the harshnesse some professors weare
Falls to their owne, and not religion's share
But your bright sweetnesse if it once appeare,
Reclaimes the bad, and softens the austere.
Men talk'd of honour too, but could not tell
What was the secret of that active spell.
That beauteous mantle they to divers lent,
Yet wonder'd what the mighty nothing meant.
Some did confine her to a worthy fame,
And some to royall pattents gave her Name
You having claime unto her either way,
By what a King could give, a world could pay,
Have a more living honour in your breast,
Which justifyes, and yet obscures the rest;
A principle from fame and pompe untyed,
So truly high that it despises pride;
Buying good actions at the dearest rate,
Lookes downe on ill with as much scorne as hate;
Acts things so generous and bravely hard,
And in obliging finds so much reward;
So selfe denying great, so firmly just,
Apt to conferre, strict to preserve a trust;
That all whose honour would be justified,
Must by your standard have it stampt and tryed
But your perfection hightens others crimes,
And you reproach while you informe the times
Which sad advantage you will scarce believe;
Or if you must, you do conceale and greive.
You scorne so poore a foyle as others ill,
And are protector to the unhappy still;
Yet are so tender when you see a spot,
You blush for those who for themselves could not.
You are so much above your sex, that we
Believe your life your greatest courtesie:
For women boast they have, while you will live,
A patterne and a representative,
And future mothers who in childbirth groane,
Shall wish for daughters, knowing you are one
The world hath Kings whose thrones are cemented
Or by that bloud they boast, or that they shed:
Yet these great Idolls of the stooping crew
Have neither pleasure sound, nor honour true.
They either fight, or play; and power court,
In triviall anger, or in cruell sport.
You, who a nobler priviledge enjoy,
(For you can save whom they can but destroy)
An empire have where different mixtures kisse;
You are grave, not soure, and kind, but not remisse
Such sweetened majestie, such humble state,
Do love and reverence at once create.
Pardon, deare Madam, these untaught essayes,
I can admire more fitly then I praise
Things so sublime are dimly understood,
And you were borne so great, and are so good,
So much above the honour of your name,
And by neglect do so secure your fame;
Whose beautie's such as captivates the wise,
Yet only you, of all the world, despise;
That have so vast a knowledge so subdued,
Religion so adorned, and so pursued;
A wit so strong, that who would it define,
Will need ten times one more acute then mine;
Yet rul'd so that its vigour managed thus
Becomes at once gratefull and generous;
Whose honour hath so delicate a sense,
Who allwayes pardon, never give offence;
Who needing nothing, yet to all are kind,
Who have so large a heart, so rich a mind;
Whose friendship still is on th'obliging side,
And yet so free from tyranny and pride;
Who do in love (like Jonathan) descend,
And strip your selfe to cloth your happy friend;
Whose kindnesse and whose modestie is such,
To expect so little and deserve so much;
Who have such candid worth, such deare concerne,
Where we so much may love, so much may learne;
Whose every wonder, though it fills and shines,
It never to an ill excesse declines;
But all are found so sweetly opposite,
As are in Titian's pieces shade and light:
That he that would your great description trye,
Though he write well, would be as lost as I,
Who of injurious zeale convicted stand,
To draw you with so bold and bad a hand;
But that, like other gloryes, I presume
You will enlighten, where you might consume.