Poetical recreations consisting of original poems, songs, odes, &c. with several new translations : in two parts / part I, occasionally written by Mrs. Jane Barker, part II, by several gentlemen of the universities, and others.

AN ELOGY ON Mrs. M. H.

By a Student of the Inner-Temple.

SOme do compare their Mistress in dull Rhimes, To Pearl and Diamonds brought from Indian Mines; Their Lips to Corral, & their Neck to Snow, Robbing both Indies to adorn them so. But these, alas, are Metaphors too bare To make perfection half it self appear; And to prophane you so, wou'd be a Sin, Worse to be pardon'd, than commenced in: A Crime, that brings my Muse into suspence, 'Twere blasphemy to setch a Simile hence.

In You each Member shows the whole to be, Not bare perfection, but a Prodigie.

Nature turn'd spend-thrift, now designs no mo••e T' amuse poor Mortals with such monst'rous s••ore, Since you have made her Bankrupt quite, and poor. Your Eyes (like Heav'ns Illustrious Lamps) dispen••e By Beams more bright a secret in••luence On all Admirers; and, like Heav'n, do give A Pow'r whereby poor Mortals be and live: Nor is this all, the Charms that constellate In your fair Eyes, they do not terminate. An equal share of those Celestial Rays, Crowns ev'ry Member with an equal praise; They're not confin'd to Lip, or Chin, or Hand, But universal are, as Sea and Land.

Who views your Body with a curious Eye, May through that milky hew a Soul descry: A Soul! that breaths nought but Seraphick Love, The sweet Monopoly of that above: Modest as Virgins are, yet not unkind; Fair, but not proud; your Goodness unconfin'd To Time or Person, and your Iudgment great, But not possessed with a self-conceit:

Perfection so divine, so pure and bright, Nor Pen nor Tongue can e'er express it right. The loftiest Epithite my Muse e'er knew, Admits a Greater, when apply'd to You; Who can resist such Charms, at whose Access Sol sneaks away to the Antipodes: Or in the Umbrage of some Cloud do's hide His Face, as if he fear'd to be out-vy'd. A Fabrick so Polite, and so compleat, Heav'n may behold with Envy and regret; To see in one poor Mortal thus Ingrost, All the perfections that she e'er cou'd boast. And were you but immortal too (like it) Angels wou'd pay that duty we omit; As if you were a Deity confin'd To humane Flesh, not wretched, but refin'd.