To the Honourable Mrs. E — — Stretchy.

The Artful hand of Nature ne'r display'd
More skill, than when your Charming Self was made:
A Shape, a Face, and Meen so rare, that we
Think you her boasted Master-piece to be;
Whilst that Bright Soul that Heaven has plac't within,
Makes every Charm with double-lustre shine:
But since I on my Lyre can touch no String,
Equal to those great Merits, I would Sing,
Hopeless, to give such mighty Charms their due,
I'll leave the World to Brighter Thoughts of you.
What mad mistaken bravery draws 'em in,
Where Constancy's no Virtue but a Sin?
How can they stil their fallen Prince esteem?
When false to Heaven, why are they true to him?
O! must they sink! a glorious Starry Race!
They are almost too good, for that sad place.
That waits their Fall: It must not, cannot be,
If err we do, wee'l err with Charity,
Father! they must be Sav'd! we'll joyn with Thee!