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.