JOHN DRYDEN
Might know a poetess was born on earth;
And then, if ever, mortal ears
Had heard the music of the spheres.
And if no clustering swarm of bees On thy sweet mouth distilPd their golden dew,
'Twas that such vulgar rmracleb
Heaven had not leisure to renew For all the blest fraternity of love Solemnized there thy birth, and kept thy holiday above.
O gracious God' how far have we Prnfan'd thy heavenly gift of Poesy' Made prostitute and profligate the Muse, Debased to each obscene and impious use, Whobe harmony was first ordain'd above, For tongues of angels and for hymns of love' O wretched we' why were we hurried down
This Jubrique and adulterate age (Nay, added fat pollutions of our own),
To increase the streaming ordures of the stage ? What can we say to excuse our second fall ? Let this thy Vestal, Heaven, atone for all' Her Arcthusian stream remains unsoil'd,
Unmixt with foreign filth, and undefil'd, Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.
Art she had none, yet wanted none,
For Nature did that want supply. So rich in treasures of her own,
She might our boasted stores defy: Such noble vigour did her verse adorn, That it seemM borrow'd, where 'twas only born.
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