The Blushes I betray,
When at your Feet I humbly lay
These Papers, beg you would excuse
Th'obedience of a bashful Muse,
Who (bowing to your strict command)
Trusts her own Errours to your hand,
Hasty Abortives, which (laid by)
She meant, ere they were born should die:
But since the soft power of your Breath
Hath call'd them back again from Death,
To your sharp Judgement now made known,
She dares for Hers no longer own;
The worst she must not, these resign'd
She hath to th'fire, and where you find
Those your kinde Charity admir'd,
She writ but what your Eyes inspir'd.