Tixall Poetry/To My Most Honoured Cosen, Mrs E. C. on New Yeare's Day
Jump to navigation
Jump to search
To My Most Honoured Cosen, Mrs E. C.
on New Yeare's Day.
Madam, the great and rich may freely pay
To you resembling tribute on this day.
Nor should I envy the best choosers too,
Such as present you your owne beauty's view.
In fairest mirrors, that did ne'r reflect
Before so bright, so charming an aspect:
If I could make you one, where you may finde
A true, though faint resemblance of your minde.
And if my words, like breath, cast not too great
A mist o're that I would before you set,
My thoughts may be the glass, where may be showne
Something you may perhaps vouchsafe to owne:
And in that hope, they stand before you here,
And your perfections thus reflected beare.
A prudence, that imediately surveys,
And chooses out the best of thousand ways;
Yet can no trust in its owne choice repose,
And alwaise feares to err, but never does:
Nor to its end doth need a surer guide
Then its quick sight of all it ought t'avoid:
A temper, that noe stormes can discompose,
Nor with the tyde of fortune ebbs or flows;
But beares all suffrings soe, as it would say,
"Ye can't take hold of me, and will not stay."
And pleasures does at such a distance meete,
As it againe can quit without regret.
(Yet, madam, thinke that this too far extends,
If it except not those true friendship lends.)
A wit, still searching in the richest mines;
A judgment, which what that brings forth refines.
Vertue, that coines it, honor, that, like kings'
Commands, thereto a double value brings;
And is not satisfy'd with all you've done,
Until it makes you nobly trample on
Not only all that's ill, but all that's meane,
As in a thousand various ways 'tis seene.
A truth, that cannot stoope to a disguise,
But doth its native beautys higher prise;
And, void of the least art, more faire appeares
Than the most flatt'ring dyes that falsehood weares.
A goodness, with itselfe for ever strives
Whether it more obliges or forgives:
Does overpay all merit, and extend
Farther than any one can ere offend.
Which I arrest, till it that pardon grants,
Which my presumptuous folly so much wants;
That could such boundless excellence designe
In these poore narrow limits to confine.
To you resembling tribute on this day.
Nor should I envy the best choosers too,
Such as present you your owne beauty's view.
In fairest mirrors, that did ne'r reflect
Before so bright, so charming an aspect:
If I could make you one, where you may finde
A true, though faint resemblance of your minde.
And if my words, like breath, cast not too great
A mist o're that I would before you set,
My thoughts may be the glass, where may be showne
Something you may perhaps vouchsafe to owne:
And in that hope, they stand before you here,
And your perfections thus reflected beare.
A prudence, that imediately surveys,
And chooses out the best of thousand ways;
Yet can no trust in its owne choice repose,
And alwaise feares to err, but never does:
Nor to its end doth need a surer guide
Then its quick sight of all it ought t'avoid:
A temper, that noe stormes can discompose,
Nor with the tyde of fortune ebbs or flows;
But beares all suffrings soe, as it would say,
"Ye can't take hold of me, and will not stay."
And pleasures does at such a distance meete,
As it againe can quit without regret.
(Yet, madam, thinke that this too far extends,
If it except not those true friendship lends.)
A wit, still searching in the richest mines;
A judgment, which what that brings forth refines.
Vertue, that coines it, honor, that, like kings'
Commands, thereto a double value brings;
And is not satisfy'd with all you've done,
Until it makes you nobly trample on
Not only all that's ill, but all that's meane,
As in a thousand various ways 'tis seene.
A truth, that cannot stoope to a disguise,
But doth its native beautys higher prise;
And, void of the least art, more faire appeares
Than the most flatt'ring dyes that falsehood weares.
A goodness, with itselfe for ever strives
Whether it more obliges or forgives:
Does overpay all merit, and extend
Farther than any one can ere offend.
Which I arrest, till it that pardon grants,
Which my presumptuous folly so much wants;
That could such boundless excellence designe
In these poore narrow limits to confine.