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Astonish'd Muse now thou hast gain'd thy Tongue,
Exalt thy fancy in a noble Song.
Thy honour'd Belvoir (that most pregnant Wombe
Of Wonders) with amazement struck thee dumb:
Thus the old doubtful Priest, his Lips were seal'd,
When that bright Quest i'th' Temple was reveal'd.
Surpriz'd alike, I silently retir'd;
Withdrew my Song, and inwardly admir'd,
That such a Lady in the Stage was seen,
Less'ning her self to represent a Queen.
Conscious of which, her Cheeks with Scarlet dy'd,
Show'd Modesty in her most Royal pride:

192

Heav'n's Face is fleckt so, when the bashful Light
Muffles her Glories in the Clouds of Night.
Mistake me not, her Splendors were not gone;
They only seem'd so, like the setting Sun.
Like him, she in her self is always bright,
Though not to us, plac'd in a vary'd light.
She may confirm the Tartar Princes's lot,
That Stories say, was by the Sun-beams got.
Her Bodie's cloath'd with light; the Sky's her Skin;
(That glorious Curtain of the Heav'n within;)
Her circ'ling Blood (like to the Worlds bright Eye)
Rounds all her World, and glitters through her Sky.
Dangers may come then by too near a view;
Her beams both dazzle may, and burn us too.
For Light is Fire, altho but thinly spread;
Through burning Glasses of her Eyes convey'd.

Mongst all those flames sh' has none that inward glow,
Nor feels the heat that warms our World below:
Cold is her Blood, as tho with Julips fed;
Not strange, since in a Snow-house it is laid.
Frost in her Blood, tho Fire is in her Eyes:
Thus Lightning from the coldest Region flyes.

Whilst the Town-scumm (those Midianites o'th Stage)
Surprize the Zimries of this wifling Age;
Apparent dangers must to us accrue,
Since real Princes here may justly woo.
Beautie's fair Goddess, and the Queen of Night,
When gaudi'st in their tissu'd robes of Light,
Tread not th' Etherial Stage with greater state;
Tho Gods themselves from them attend their fate.
Whirl'd in their Sphears (those bright Machines) they fly
Quite through the space of their archt-roof of th' Sky.

193

Nor does the simile unfit appear,
Or for this Actor or this Theater.
Formerly, when the Prophets zeals were fir'd,
By pow'rs which they ador'd, they were inspir'd.
Blest age! wherein the Oracles of Wit
Were sacred Dictates from the Altar Writ.
When Poëts were the Trumpets that convey'd
Those formed sounds that by the Gods were made.
Then from the Deities they gain'd respect;
But now from heedless Mortals find neglect:
Immortal Verse sprung from immortal aids;
Now Misses rule then rul'd the Thespian Maids.
Hence they of future things divinely writ;
Now past and present fooleries are Wit;
Poems, and Poets, one another fit.

It must be so, now thirst of Fame's away,
Quencht with large Draughts, and th' Vine out-grows the Bay.
Whilst Farces and such Vices of the Stage,
Corrupt the Poetry of this loose Age.
No Heroe, no Mecænas in these times,
For Subject, or incouragement of Rhymes.
Dryden alone, has got some Title now
To th' Lawrel wreaths, that grace his lucky Brow.
Tho neither Deity nor Muse inspires,
Her breath alone fann'd his Poetick fires.
Th' old custom is to his advantage broke;
For here he made those words the Goddess spoke.
Blest by her Mouth, they may obtain the fate
Of Oracles, and gain as long a date.
Thus his rude Oare cast in that precious Mould,
Lost all its Dross, and turn'd refined Gold.

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She did create its worth, and made the Play;
And breath'd the breath of Life into his Clay.