To a young Lady

Let grov'ling Rhymers court and awkward Muse, Their Genius urge, and give their Fires a loose, Invoke Apollo Delia's Name to sing. And ask a Quill from Cupid's am'rous Wing; But I, more happy, speak a brighter Flame, A nobler Pen, and a diviner Dame.

You, fair BELINDA, ev'ry Bosom fire, Tune ev'ry Voice, and sound on ev'ry Lyre: Where e'er you point the Lightning of your Eyes, Victim's fall thick, and Fate resistless flies; From all your Form a thousand Glories dart, And feather'd Mischiefs strike on ev'ry Heart: This slender Quill, from your fair Hand, can prove An Arrow wing'd with Conquest and with Love; Can, ev'n in my unartful Fingers shine, And with warm Beauties Grace each flowing Line, While ev'ry Reader feels th' immortal Strains, Thrill thro' his Heart, and glow along his Veins.

But you, O charming Maid, throw by these Arms, Forget your Features, and neglect your Charms Tho' rising Lillies on your Temples spread, And Roses strew your Cheeks with fainter red, Yet look disdainful on a fading Face, Boast brighter Glories, and a nobler Grace; Ye Virtues! dress her with a constant Care, And to an Angel raise the smiling Fair,