To a Lady who was libell'd.

To a Lady who was libell'd.

When Cynthia, Regent of the Tides, Pale in meridian Pride presides; A Sov'reign Pow'r the Goddess claims O'er Seas, and Sea-supplying Streams; The River of the richest Source With Ease she turns, and checks his Course; His crystal Clearness can defile With ev'ry Filth, and Salt as vile; However strong, and smooth, and pure, Her Tyranny he must endure; Till, her Dominion in the Wain, He clears, and is himself again.

Thus, over black, benighted Brains, Fell Envy, baleful Goddess, reigns; O'er mortal Passions, pale, presides; Passions, the Soul's tumultuous Tides; Which, in their fierce, resistless Sway, Invade all Merit in their Way; With Ease the clearest Truths confute, With Ease the purest Worth pollute; Check ev'ry Virtue in its Course, And taint, impetuous, to its Source, The Current of the fairest Fame, By forcing Filth into the Stream.

So are you sully'd for a Season, Till Rage recoils, and yields to Reason: Then turns the Tide — your Credit clears, And all your real Worth appears.