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TO Mrs. MARY FREWEN,
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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216

TO Mrs. MARY FREWEN,

Upon Her having the Small-Pox.

Let Others pensive o'er their Mirrors trace,
The beauteous Ruins of a former Face;
Nor for thy Beauties, lovely Maid repine,
Thy Beauties mingled in a Mould Divine,
Can but endure a momentary Pain,
And like all Heavenly Substance heal again.
And see thy Dangers, and our Fears are o'er,
Hearts pant, Sighs heave, and Sorrow streams no more!
As Gold by purging Flame still clearer glows,
As Virtue from Affliction brighter grows,

217

Sweet e'en in Griefs, and e'en in Pangs serene,
Dawn the dear Glories of Euphrenia's Mien;
Dear to the Muse, who trembling spreads her Wings,
To shrowd the Lover, as her Poet sings;
But as he Loves, alas! he Sings in vain,
When Beauty's in Affliction, every Strain.
When every Charm a thousand Charms resumes,
And fair as Eden, from Confusion blooms,
Raptur'd He stands, and boldly dares Divine,
How to an Angel Thou must once Refine.