An EPISTLE to a LADY, who defired the Author to make Verses on Her, in the Heroic Stile.
FTER venting all my Spight,
Tell me what I have to write?
Ev'ry Error I could find
Thro' the Mazes of your Mind
Have my bufy Mufe employ'd,
Till the Company was cloy'd.
Are you pofitive and fretful?
Heedlefs, ignorant, forgetful?
Thofe, and twenty Follies more
I have often told before.
Hearken, what my Lady fays.--
Have I nothing then to praise?
Ill it fits you to be witty,
Where a Fault fhould trove your Pity.
If you think me too conceited,
Or to Paffion quickly heated:
If my wand'ring Head be lefs
Set on Reading, than on Drefs:
If I always feem too dull t'ye;
I can folve the Difficulty.
You wou'd teach me to be wife ;
Truth and Honour how to prize;
How to fhine in Converfation,
And, with Credit fill my Station;
How to relish Notions high,
How to live, and how to die.
