Streams from Helicon :: :: University of Virginia Library

Fair Corinna she doth rise,
Blushing like the Morning Skies;
Her Hair is as the streaming Gold:
(Half her Charms can ne'er be told)
All the Stars that's in the Skies,
Shine not like her peirceing Eyes.
In her Breasts the Lillie grows,
In her Cheeks the Summer's Rose;
How her Bosom gently moves,
Shining with the gloz of Doves:

Softer than the Down of Swans,
Is her Arms and her Hands;
Her Cloths doth greater Beauties shrow'd,
Than these which makes the Peacock proud.
Oh, Corinna's charming Fair!
Matchless in her Shape and Air;
'Twas such Beauty that did move,
Ovid in his Art of Love.
Looks like her's made Adam fall,
Beauty triumphs over all;
With her Brightness I'm undone,
Like Men gazing on the Sun:
Cruel Beauty haste away,
Or you'll kill me if you stay.

Now she looks unto the Glass,
Which doth all her Airs express;
I am ravish'd when I View,
Corinna multiply'd to Two.
O Corinna! hear my Pray'r,
You are Good as well as Fair;
Take no Patches, they'll do Harm,
Ev'ry Patch conceals a Charm:
Minor Beauties Patch and Paint,
'Tis because their Colour's faint;
Let them counterfeit the Rose,
To beguile a gleik of Beaux.
Pouder, curle and dy their Hair,
And affect a courtly Air;
Nature when she finish'd you,
Left Art nothing for to do.

Don't employ the cruel Fan,
Less than that hath kill'd a Man;
It's an Implement of Death,
When it cools you with it's Breath.
As Western Breezes makes the Rose,
All its Sweetness to disclose;
So the Fan spreads all the Flow'rs,
In that lovely Face of yours.
The Fan created first my Pain,
I was Dead, but liv'd again;
You can with the smallest Toy,
Which your Fingers doth employ,
Melt the Soul with rapt'rous Joy.

I'll another Favour ask,
Be not cover'd with a Mask;
Bless the World with your Face,
And expose your ev'ry Grace,
Wound and kill each Swain you see;
But reserve your Heart for me.

II. PART II.

If you go to the Temple, Nymph divine,
They'll ev'ry Image burn, and ev'ry Shrine;
Each Vot'ry there will only worship thine.
Fair Devotess, in heat of boiling Love,
Thinking you are descended from above,
Low at thy Feet they'll kneel, devoutly bow,
And with imploring Hymns they'll worship you:

Ave Marias they'll forget to sing,
Ave Corinna, thro' the Dome will ring;
They'll Feast upon your Beauty, glorious Saint;
The Crime may Damn them, for its breach of Lent.

O! had Pope Jean, like you, been killing Fair,
Your Sex had always fill'd the Papal Chair;
Then strictest Hugonets had gladly come
To kneel, and kiss thy lovely Toe at Rome.
Sweet Cherubim, you prove beyond the Priest,
They lye who plead, that Miracles are ceas'd.
Go then, fair Vot'ry, to the Dome and Pray,
You'll wash the Guilt of Heresy away,
And sanctify this Superstitious Day.