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Poems

By the most deservedly Admired Mrs Katherine Philips: The matchless Orinda. To which is added Monsieur Corneille's Pompey & Horace Tragedies. With several other Translations out of French

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Rosania's private Marriage.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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Rosania's private Marriage.

It was a wise and kind design of Fate,
That none should this day's glory celebrate:
For 'twere in vain to keep a time which is
Above the reach of all Solemnities.
The greatest Actions pass without a noise,
And Tumults but prophane diviner Joys.
Silence with things transcendent nearest suits,
The greatest Emperours are serv'd by Mutes.
And as in ancient time the Deities
To their own Priests reveal'd no Mysteries
Until they were from all the World retir'd,
And in some Cave made fit to be inspir'd.
So when Rosania (who hath them out-vied,
And with more Justice might be Deified;
Who if she had their Rites and Altars, we
Should hardly think it were Idolatry)
Had found a breast that did deserve to be
Receptacle of her Divinity;
It was not fit the gazing World should know
When she convey'd her self to him, or how.
An Eagle safely may behold the Sun,
When weak Eyes are with too much Light undone.
Now as in Oracles were understood,
Not the Priest's only, but the common good:

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So her great Soul would not imparted be,
But in design of general Charity.
She now is more diffusive than before;
And what men then admir'd, they now adore.
For this Exchange makes not her Power less,
But only fitter for the World's Address.
May then that Mind (which if we will admit
The Universe one Soul, must sure be it)
Inform this All, (which, till she shin'd out, lay
As drowsie men do in a cloudy day)
And Honour, Vertue, Reason so dispence,
That all may owe them to her influence:
And while this Age is thus imploy'd, may she
Scatter new Blessings for Posterity.
I dare not any other wish prefer,
For only her bestowing adds to her.
And to a Soul so in her self complete
As would be wrong'd by any Epithete,
Whose splendour's fix'd unto her chosen Sphere,
And fill'd with Love and Satisfaction there,
What can increase the Triumph, but to see
The World her Convert and her History?