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.
Philips, Katherine, 1631-1664., Corneille, Pierre, 1606-1684., Corneille, Pierre, 1606-1684.
To the Honoured Lady E. C.
Madam,
I Do not write to you that men may know
How much I'm honour'd that I may do so:
Nor hope (though I your rich Example give)
To write with more success than I can live,
To cure the Age; nor think I can be just,
Who only dare to write, because I must.
I'm full of you, and something must express,
To vent my wonder and your pow'r confess.
Had I ne're heard of your Illustrious Name,
Nor known the Scotch or English ancient Fame;
Yet if your glorious Frame did but appear,
I could have soon read all your Grandeur there.
I could have seen in each majestick ray
What greatness Ancestors could e're convey;
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And in the lustre of your Eyes alone,
How near you were allied to the Throne:
Which yet doth lessen you, who cannot need
Those bright advantages which you exceed.
For you are such, that your Descent from Kings
Receives more Honour from you than it brings:
As much above their Glories as our Toil.
A Court to you were but a handsom foil.
And if we name the Stock on which you grew,
'Tis rather to do right to it than you:
For those that would your greatest splendour see,
Must read your Soul more than your Pedigree.
For as the sacred Temple had without
Beauty to feed those eyes that gaz'd about,
And yet had riches, state, and wonder more,
For those that stood within the shining door;
But in the Holy place the admitted few,
Lustre receiv'd and Inspiration too:
So though your Glories in your Face be seen,
And so much bright Instruction in your Meen;
You are not known but where you will impart
The treasures of your more illustrious Heart.
Religion all her odours sheds on you,
Who by obeying vindicate her too:
For that rich Beam of Heaven was almost
In nice Disputes and false Pretences lost;
So doubly injur'd, she could scarce subsist
Betwixt the Hypocrite and Casuist;
Till you by great Example did convince
Us of her nature and her residence,
And chose to shew her face, and ease her grief,
Less by your Arguments than by your Life;
Which, if it should be copied our, would be
A solid Body of Divinity.
Your Principle and Practice light would give
What we should do, and what we should believe:
For the extensive Knowledge you profess,
You do acquire with more ease than confess.
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And as by you Knowledge has thus obtain'd
To be refin'd, and then to be explain'd:
So in return she useful is to you,
In Practice and in Contemplation too.
For by the various succours she hath lent,
You act with Judgment, and think with Content.
Yet those vast Parts with such a Temper meet,
That you can lay them at Religion's feet.
Nor is it half so bold as it is true,
That Vertue is her self oblig'd to you:
For being drest in your subduing Charms,
She conquers more than did the Roman Arms.
We see in you how much that Malice ly'd
That stuck on Goodness any sullen Pride;
And that the harshness some Professors wear
Falls to their own, and not Religon's share.
But your bright sweetness if it but appear,
Reclaims the bad, and softens the austere.
Men talk'd of Honour too, but could not tell
What was the secret of that active spell.
That beauteous Mantle they to divers lent,
Yet wonder'd what the mighty nothing meant.
Some did confine her to a worthy Fame,
And some to Royal Parents gave her Name.
You having claim unto her either way,
By what a King could give, a world could pay,
Have a more living Honour in your breast,
Which justifies, and yet obscures the rest;
A Principle from Fame and Pomp unty'd,
So truly high that it despises Pride;
Buying good actions at the dearest rate,
Looks down on ill with as much scorn as hate;
Acts things so generous and bravely hard,
And in obliging finds so much Reward;
So Self-denying great, so firmly just,
Apt to confer, strict to preserve a Trust;
That all whose Honour would be justified,
Must by your standards have it stamp'd and tried.
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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;
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Yet rul'd so that its Vigour manag'd thus
Becomes at once graceful and generous;
Whose Honour has so delicate a Sense,
Who always pardon, never give offence;
Who needing nothing, yet to all are kind,
Who have so large a Heart, so rich a Mind;
Whose Friendship still's of the obliging side,
And yet so free from Tyranny and Pride;
Who do in love like Jonathan descend,
And strip your self to cloath your happy friend;
Whose kindness and whose modesty is such,
T'expect so little and deserve so much;
Who have such candid worth, such dear concern,
Where we so much may love, and so much learn;
Whose every wonder though it fills and shines,
It never to an ill excess declines;
But all are found so sweetly opposite,
As are in Titians Pieces Shade and Light:
That he that would your great Description try,
Though he write well, would be as lost as I,
Who of injurious Zeal convicted stand,
To draw you with so bold and bad a hand;
But that, like other Glories, I presume
You will enlighten, where you might consume.
