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.

Invitation to the Country.

BE kind, my dear Rosania, though 'tis true Thy Friendship will become thy Penance too; Though there be nothing can reward the pain, Nothing to satisfie or entertain; Though all be empty, wild, and like to me, Who make new Troubles in my Company: Yet is the action more obliging great; 'Tis Hardship only makes Desert complete. But yet to prove Mixtures all things compound, There may in this be some advantage found; For a Retirement from the noise of Towns, Is that for which some Kings have left their Crowns: And Conquerours, whose Laurel prest the brow, Have chang'd it for the quiet Myrtle-bow. For Titles, Honours, and the World's Address, Are things too cheap to make up Happiness; The easie Tribute of a giddy race, And pay'd less to the Person then the place. So false reflected and so short content Is that which Fortune and Opinion lent, That who most try'd it have of Fate complain'd, With Titles burthen'd and to greatness chain'd.

For they alone enjoy'd what they possest, Who relisht most and understood it best. And yet that understanding made them know The empty swift dispatch of all below. So that what most can outward things endear, Is the best means to make them disappear: And even that Tyrant (Sense) doth these destroy, As more officious to our Grief then Joy. Thus all the glittering World is but a cheat, Obtruding on our Sense things Gross for Great. But he that can enquire and undisguise, Will soon perceive the sting that hidden lies; And find no Joys merit esteem but those Whose Scene lies only at our own dispose. Man unconcern'd without himself may be His own both Prospect and Security. Kings may be Slaves by their own Passions hurl'd, But who commands himself commands the World. A Country-life assists this study best, Where no distractions do the Soul arrest: There Heav'n and Earth lie open to our view, There we search Nature and its Author too; Possest with Freedom and a real State Look down on Vice, and Vanity, and Fate. There (my Rosania) will we, mingling Souls, Pity the Folly which the World controuls; And all those Grandeurs which the World do prize We either can enjoy, or will despise.