Poems by the most deservedly admired Mrs. Katherine Philips, the matchless Orinda ; to which is added Monsieur Corneille's Pompey & Horace, tragedies ; with several other translations out of French.

Lucasia.

NOt to oblige Lucasia by my voice, To boast my fate, or justifie my choice, Is this design'd; but pity does engage My Pen to rescue the declining Age. For since 'tis grown in fashion to be bad, And to be vain or angry, proud or mad, (While in their Vices only Men agree) Is thought the only modern Gallantry; How would some brave Examples check the crimes, And both reproch, and yet reform, the Times? Nor can Morality it self reclaim Th' apostate World like my Lucasia's name: Lucasia, whose rich Soul had it been known In that Time th' Ancients call'd the Golden one, When Innocence and Greatness were the same, And Men no battels knew but in a game, Chusing what Nature, not what Art, prefers; Poets were Judges, Kings Philosophers; Even then from her the Wise would copies draw, And she to th' infant World had giv'n a Law. That Souls were made of Number could not be An Observation, but a Prophecy. It meant Lucasia, whose harmonious state The Spheres and Muses only imitate. But as then Musick is best understood, When every Chord's examin'd and found good: So what in others Judgment is and Will, In her is the same even Reason still. And as some Colour various seems, but yet 'Tis but our diff'rence in considering it: So she now light, and then does light dispence, But is one shining Orb of Excellence:

And that so piercing when she Judgment takes, She doth not search, but Intuition makes: And her Discoveries more easie are Than Caesar's Conquest in his Pontick War. As bright and vigorous her beams are pure, And in their own rich candour so secure, That had she liv'd where Legends were devised, Rome had been just, and she been canonized. Nay Innocence her self less clear must be, If Innocence be any thing but she. For Vertue's so congenial to her mind, That Liquid things, or Friends, are less combin'd. So that in her that Sage his wish had seen, And Vertue's self had personated been. Now as distilled Simples do agree, And in th' Alembick lose variety; So Vertue, though in pieces scatter'd 'twas, Is by her Mind made one rich useful mass. Nor doth Discretion put Religion down, Nor hasty Zeal usurp the Judgment's crown. Wisdom and Friendship have one single Throne, And make another Friendship of their own. Each sev'ral piece darts such fierce pleasing rayes, Poetick Lovers would but wrong in praise. All hath proportion, all hath comliness, And her Humility alone excess. Her Modesty doth wrong a Worth so great, Which Calumny her self would noblier treat: While true to Friendship and to Nature's trust, To her own Merits only she's unjust. But as Divinity we best declare By sounds as broken as our Notions are; So to acknowledge such vast Eminence, Imperfect Wonder is our Eloquence. No Pen Lucasia's glories can relate, But they admire best who dare imitate.