That it the mother of the gods might pose,

When the best woman for her guide she chose:
But if Apollo should defign

A woman Laureat to make,

Without difpute he would Orinda take,

Tho' Sappho and the famous Nine

Stood by, and did repine.

To be a princess or a queen

Is great, but 'tis a greatness always feen;
The world did never but two women know

Who, one by fraud, th' other by wit, did rise
To the two tops of sp'ritual dignities,
One female Pope of old, one female Poet now.

III.

Of female poets, who had names of old,
Nothing is shown, but only told,

And all we hear of them perhaps may be

Male-flatt'ry only, and male-poetry!

Few minutes did their beauties' lightning waste,

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45

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The thunder of their voice did longer last,

But that, too, foon was past.

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The certain proofs of our Orinda's wit

In her own lasting characters are writ,

And they will long my praise of them survive,

Tho' long, perhaps, too, that may live.

The trade of glory manag'd by the pen,

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Tho' great it be, and every where is found,

Does bring in but small profit to us men;
'Tis by the number of the sharers drown'd:

Orinda on the female coafts of Fame

Engroffes all the goods of a poetic name: na
She does no partner with her fee,

Does all the bus'ness there alone, which we I
Are forc'd to carry on by a whole company

But wit's like a luxuriant vine,

Unless to Virtue's prop it join,

Firm and erect towards heav'n bound;

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70

[crown'd,

Tho' it with beauteous leaves, and pleasant fruit be
It lies deform'd, and rotting on the ground...

Now fhame and blushes on us all,
Who our own fex fuperior call!
Orinda does our boasting sex outdo,
Not in wit only, but in virtue too:
She does above our best examples rife
In hate of vice and fcorn of vanities.
Never did fpirit of the manly make,

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80

When her foft breast they hit, pow'rless and dead they

V.

The fame of Friendship which fo long had told

Of three or four illuftrious names of old,

[lay.

Till hoarfe and weary with the tale she grew,
Rejoices now to 'ave got a new,

A new, and more surprising story,
Of fair Leucafia's and Orinda's glory.
As when a prudent man does once perceive
That in fome foreign country he must live,
The language and the manners he does ftrive
To understand and practise here,

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That he may come no stranger there;

So well Orinda did herself prepare,

In this much-different clime, for her remove

PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES.

To the truly worthy and noble

SIR KENELM DIGBY, KNIGHT*.

THIS latter age, the lees of time, has known
Few that have made both Pallas' arts their own;
But you, great Sir !two laurels wear, and are....:
Victorious in peace as well as war :<
Learning by right of conquest is your own,
And every lib'ral art your captive grown;
As if neglected Science (for it now

Wants fome defenders) fled for help to you;
Whom I must follow, and let this for me
An earnest of my future service be;
Which I should fear to fend you, did I know
Your judgment only, not your candour too :
For 'twas a work ftoll'n (tho' you'll justly call
This play as fond as those) from Cat or Ball,
Had it been written fince, I should, I fear,
Scarce have abftain'd from a philofopher,
Which by tradition here is thought to be
A neceffary part in comedy. :'

Nor need I tell you this; each line of it

Betrays the time and place wherein 'twas writ;

ΤΟ

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• This poem is prefixed to the paftoral comedy of Love's

Riddle.

And I could wish that I could safely fay,

Reader, this play was made but th' other day.

Yet 'tis not ftuff'd with names of gods, hard words, Such as the Metamorphofes affords;

Nor has 't a part for Robinson, whom they

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At school account effential to a play.

The style is low, such as you'll easily take

For what a swain might say, and a boy make.
Take it, as early fruits, which rare appear,
Tho' not half ripe, but worst of all the year;
And if it please your taste, my Mufe will fay,

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The birch which crown'd her then is grown a bay. 32

EPILOGUE.

SPOKEN BY ALUPIS.

THE Author bid me tell you-'Faith I have

Forgot what 'twas; and I'm a very slave
If I know what to say; but only this,

Be merry; that my counfel always is.

Let no grave man knit up his brow, and say
'Tis foolish, why? 'twas a boy made the play ;
Nor any yet of those that fit behind,

Because he goes in plush, be of his mind.

Let none his time, or his spent money, grieve:
Be merry; give me your hands, and I'll believe: IO
Or if you will not, I'll go in and fee

If I can turn the Author's mind, with me