of bees
    On thy sweet mouth distill’d their golden dew,
      ’Twas that such vulgar miracles
      Heaven had not leisure to renew: 
    For all thy blest fraternity of love
  Solemnized there thy birth, and kept thy holiday above.

  IV.

    O gracious God! how far have we
  Profaned thy heavenly gift of Poesy! 
  Made prostitute and profligate the Muse,
  Debased to each obscene and impious use,
  Whose harmony was first ordain’d above
  For tongues of angels, and for hymns of love! 
  O wretched we! why were we hurried down
    This lubrique and adulterate age,
  (Nay added fat pollutions of our own,)
  To increase the streaming ordures of the stage? 
  What can we say to excuse our second fall? 
  Let this thy vestal, Heaven, atone for all: 
  Her Arethusian stream remains unsoil’d,
  Unmix’d with foreign filth, and undefiled: 
  Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.

  V.

    Art she had none, yet wanted none;
    For nature did that want supply: 
    So rich in treasures of her own,
    She might our boasted stores defy: 
  Such noble vigour did her verse adorn,
  That it seem’d borrow’d where ’twas only born. 
  Her morals too were in her bosom bred. 
    By great examples daily fed,
  What in the best of books, her father’s life, she read: 
  And to be read herself she need not fear;
  Each test, and every light, her Muse will bear,
  Though Epictetus with his lamp were there. 
  Even love (for love sometimes her Muse express’d)
  Was but a lambent flame which play’d about her breast: 
  Light as the vapours of a morning dream,
  So cold herself, whilst she such warmth express’d,
  ’Twas Cupid bathing in Diana’s stream.

  VI.

  Born to the spacious empire of the Nine,
  One would have thought she should have been content
  To manage well that mighty government;
  But what can young ambitious souls confine? 
    To the next realm she stretch’d her sway,
    For Painture near adjoining lay,
  A plenteous province, and alluring prey. 
    A Chamber of Dependencies was framed,
  (As conquerors will never want pretence,
    When arm’d, to justify the offence)
  And the whole fief, in right of poetry, she claim’d. 
  The country open lay without defence: 

  For poets frequent inroads there had made,
    And perfectly could represent
    The shape, the face, with every lineament,
  And all the large domains which the Dumb Sister sway’d;
    All bow’d beneath her government,
    Received in triumph wheresoe’er she went. 
  Her pencil drew whate’er her soul design’d,
  And oft the happy draft surpass’d the image in her mind. 
    The sylvan scenes of herds and flocks,
    And fruitful plains and barren rocks,
    Of shallow brooks that flow’d