But your Perfection heightens others Crimes,
And you reproch while you inform the Times.
Which sad advantage you will scarce believe;
Or if you must, you do conceal and grieve.
You scorn so poor a foil as others ill,
And are Protectour to th' unhappy still;
Yet are so tender when you see a spot,
You blush for those who for themselves could not.
You are so much above your Sex, that we
Believe your Life your greatest courtesie:
For Women boast, they have you while you live
A Pattern and a Representative.
And future Mothers who in Child-birth groan,
Shall wish for Daughters knowing you are one.
The world hath Kings whose Crowns are cemented
Or by the bloud they boast, or that they shed:
Yet these great Idols of the stooping crew
Have neither Pleasure sound, nor Honour true.
They either fight, or play; and Power court,
In trivial anger, or in cruel sport.
You, who a nobler Privilege enjoy,
(For you can save whom they can but destroy)
An Empire have where different mixtures kiss;
You're grave, not sour, and kind, but not remiss.
Such sweetned Majesty, such humble State,
Do love and reverence at once create.
Pardon (dear Madam) these untaught Essayes,
I can admire more fitly than I praise.
Things so sublime are dimly understood,
And you are born so great, and are so good,
So much above the Honour of your Name,
And by neglect do so secure your Fame;
Whose Beauty's such as captivates the Wise,
Yet only you of all the World despise;
That have so vast a Knowledge so subdued,
Religion so adorn'd, and so pursued;
A Wit so strong, that who would it define,
Will need one ten times more acute than mine;