University of Virginia Library

To the Author of the EPISTLE. To Mrs MASTERS and her Readers.

Whoe'er thou art, my nameless angry Foe,
That hop'st unseen, to strike an envious Blow;
In vain thou striv'st with base dissembling Art,
To hide the secret Rancour of thy Heart.
In vain would'st black infernal Hate conceal,
Beneath the Brightness of Religion's Veil;
What did thy Line of Blasphemy intend!
Can Rage like this promote a virtuous End!
In thy invidious Charge is plainly seen,
A lurking Enemy that vents his Spleen;
Wresting my Words, to Sense they ne'er design'd,
And foreign to each candid Reader's Mind.
My honest Meaning wrong'd, in Zeal can burn,
And present Fervor serves a present Turn;
Then in a sacred, but affected Strain,
Thou persecut'st the Errors of thy Brain;
But if thou need'st must ape the Critic's Skill,
For once take Counsel from a Woman's Quill;
And when thou next attempt'st the Censor's Page,
Resume thy Judgment, and renounce thy Rage;
Friendly Reproof my Soul, with Joy, receives,
But I despise the Blow that Malice gives;
Faults I allow in ev'ry Piece I've writ,
The Want of Spirit, Elegance and Wit.
The pointed Beauties, and the polish'd Art,
To raise my Verse, and charm the Reader's Heart;
Yet need not call Myrtillo's manly Muse,
To aid my Pen, and combat thy Abuse.
My Themes themselves, shall for their Author plead,
And justify me from an impious Deed;
Pure are my Thoughts, from all Profaneness free,
Awfully reverent of the Deity;
'Tis true, with warmth, I celebrate a Friend,
And am delighted when I can commend:
While each impartial Judge to me will grant,
What thou, my Monitor, seem'st much to want;
O, let me here the gen'rous Talent boast,
I most am pleas'd, when I can praise the most.
Take not a Line or two to feed thy Spite,
But read the whole, and understand it right;
Go search, un-prejudic'd, and joy to find,
Marks of good Nature with a Christian Mind.
What tho' I fondly sung Clemene's Name,
And was transported with the darling Theme;
No Adoration, no false Worship's there,
No solemn Invocation made by Pray'r:
No wonder-working Pow'r to her is giv'n,
Nor ought implor'd that I should ask of Heav'n.
I ever thought it was high Merit's due,
To be admir'd, belov'd, applauded too;
I lov'd, admir'd, and prais'd my virtuous Friend;
Yet knew each Grace did from her God descend;
I own'd the Spring whence all her Beauties flow'd,
And lowly bow'd me to the sov'reign Good.