No. IV. ODE to Lady SUNDERLAND

Fair nymph, ascend to beauty's throne, And rule that radiant world alone: Let fav'rites take thy lower sphere, Not monarchs are thy rivals here.

The court of beauty, built sublime, Defies all power but heaven and time: Envy, that clouds the hero's sky, Aims but in vain her flight so high,

Not Blenheim's field, nor Ister's flood, Nor standards dy'd in gallic blood, Torn from the foe, add nobler grace To CHURCHILL's house than SPENCER's face.

The warlike thunder of his arms Is less commanding than her charms: His lightnings strike with less surprise Than sudden glances from her eyes.

His captives feel their limbs confin'd In iron—she enslaves the mind: We follow with a pleasing pain, And bless the conqueror and the chain.

The muse that dares in numbers do What paint and pencil never knew, Faints at her presence in despair, And owns th' inimitable fair.