Oft have I strove t'asscend that lofty ground,
Where th'immortal raritys are found,
But all in vain, Parnassus is too high,
And I to weak either to climb or fly.
Then pardon madam that I bring to you,
Such flowers as I cou'd scramble up below,
Which so insippid are, compar'd to yours,
As dayses, amongst finest gilliflowers,
But whosoe'er pretends to immitate,
Your works, and not live in your holy state
Deserves to suffer proud Arachnas fate.
For those who will pretend to work like you,
Must do the work of saints and Angells too
For every Alaluja you repeat,
And every hym, or antiphon you set,
Makes either Rose, pink, lilly, violet.
Which holy Angells fresh in water keep
(That water which for others sins you weep)
To dress heav'ns altars up, on propper days
When Augustin saints sing Alalujas.
And when in Rapture you are carryed there,
Thence in your minds the beautious figgures bear,
And like an other wonderous Moses you,
Transcribe heavens works, and natures far outdo,
Or like those painters who best pictures make
Who for a pattern their own children take.
We need not to Italion villas go
Nor yet versails, the Toileries st Cloud,
T'admire the works of nature or of art,
Since you excell em all in every part,
Thus the great world, byth' little world's outdone,
Not' only so, but by the heart alone,
For the vast universe can never show,
So fine a structure, such a motion too,
Now though this member's small, and cloyster'd lives,
Yet to the whole, it animation gives,
So you bless'd Dames, insensibly dispence,
On all your sex, your vertuous influence,
Whilst you your selves, gain what this world can't give
A perfect life, heav'ns representative.