To the Same. On her desiring the Author to write a Satire upon her.

To the Same.

On her desiring the Author to write a Satire upon her.

Full of my self, resolv'd to rail, I summon'd all my pride; Ill-nature form'd th' invidious tale, And rage its aid supply'd.

Each fav'rite female vice I paint, And every folly join: In short, description is but faint; A libel was each line.

The picture thus ill-nature fram'd, By malice was apply'd; Those real charms for which you're fam'd, I took most pains to hide.

But how unlike the finish'd draught Of Clayton's lovely mind! Ev'n I who drew it, knew it not, Nor could one likeness find.

Thus, dawber like, with low design, I spoilt a beauteous frame; And conscious of each faulty line, Was forc'd to write your name.

In Eden thus, its shades among, Ere vice could fix a stain, The serpent roll'd his pointless tongue, And hiss'd and twin'd in vain.

Again fair virtue loves to dwell In your engaging form; As pure as Eve before she fell, As free from inward storm.

Keen satire now, with soften'd gaze, Unbends her wrinkled brow; And looks serenely gen'rous praise, Who never prais'd till now.