S in those Nations where they yet adore
Marble and Cedar, and their aid implore,
Tis not the Workman, nor the precious Wood,
But 'tis the Worshipper that makes the god :
So, cruel Fair, tho Heaven has given thee all
We Mortals (Virtue, or can Beauty) call,
'Tis we that give the Thunder to your Frowns,
Darts to your Eyes,and to our felves the Wounds.
Without our Love, which proudly you deride,
Vaia were your Beauty, and more vain your Pride,
All envy'd Beings that the World can shew,
Still to fome meaner thing their greatness owe.
Subjects
Subjects make Kings, and we (the numerous
Of Humble Lovers) Conftitute thy Reign.
This difference only Beauties Realm may boast,
Where moft it favours, it enflaves the most.
And they to whom it is indulgent found;
Are ever in the rudeft Fetters bound.
What Tyrant yet, but thee, was ever known
Cruel to thofe that ferv'd to make him one?
Valour's a Vice, if not with Honour joyn'd,
And Beauty a Disease, when 'tis not kind.
H! Pardon, Madam, if I ever thought
Your smallest Favours could too dear be
And the juft greatness of your Servants Flame,
I did the poorness of their Spirits Name;
Calling their due attendance, Slavery,
Your power of Life and Death, flat Tyranny;
Since now I yield, and do confefs, there is
No way too hard that leads to fuch a blifs.
So when Hippomanes beheld the Race,
Where Lofs was Death, and Conqueft but a
He stood amazed at the fatal ftrife,
Wond'ring that Love should dearer be than Life
But when he saw the Prize, no longer staid,
But through those very dangers fought the Maid
And won her too: O may his Conqueft prove
A happy Omen to my purer Love;
Which, if the honour of all Victory
In the refiftance of the Vanquifht lie,
Though, it may be, the leaft regarded Prize,.
Is not the smallest Trophy of your Eyes.
Ear not, My Dear, a Flame can never die,
That is once kindled by fo bright an Eye.
Look on thy felf, and measure thence my Love,
Think what a Paffion fuch a Form muft move;
For though thy Beauty first allur'd my Sight,
Yet now I look on it but as the Light
That led me to the Treafury of thy Mind,
Whose inward Virtue in that Feature fhin'd.
That knot (be confident) will ever laft,
Which Fancy ty'd, and Reason has made faft;
So faft, that time (although it may disarm
Thy Lovely Face) my Faith can never harm;
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