Written in a Lady's Waller

The lovely owner of this book Does here on her own image look: Each happy page, each finish'd line, Does with her matchless graces shine; And is, with common verse compar'd, What she is among Beauty's herd. The Poet boasts a lofty thought, In softest numbers smoothly wrought; Has all that pleases the severe, And all that charms a listening ear. And such the nymph is—blest with all That we can sweet or noble call: For never sure was any mind,

Of all that from Heaven's treasury came, Of better make and more refin'd,

Or lodg'd within a fairer frame. Such angels seem, when pleas'd to wear Some lovely dress of colour'd air! Oh, had she liv'd before the old Bard had so many winters told: Then when his youthful veins ran high, Enflam'd with Love and Poetry: He only to this shining maid The tribute of his verse had paid: No meaner face, no lesser name, Had fix'd his eyes, or fed his flame; Her beauties had employ'd his tongue, And Sacharissa died unsung.