The Discovery. To the Countess of N———.
WITH Myra's Charms, and my extream Despair,
Long has my Muse amaz'd the Reader's Ear,
My Friends with Pity heard the mournful Sound,
And all enquir'd who gave the fatal Wound;
Th' astonish'd World beheld an endless Flame,
Ne'er to be quencht, and knew not whence it came:
So scatter'd Fire from burning Ætna flies,
Yet none can tell from whence those Flames arise.
My timorous Tongue, still trembling to confess,
Fearful to name, wou'd fain have had her guess;
Slight Passions with great Ease we can unfold:
Were my Love less, my Tongue had been more bold;
But who can live, and endless Torments feel?
Compell'd by Racks, the most Resolv'd reveal
Those Secrets that their Prudence wou'd conceal.
My weeping Muse, opprest with hopeless Vows,
Flies to her Feet, and thus for Mercy bows.
Survey your self, and then forgive your Slave,
Think what a Passion, such a Form must have;
Who can, unmov'd, behold that heav'nly Face,
Those radiant Eyes, and that resistless Grace?
My Vows to Myra all were meant to Thee,
The Praise, the Love, the matchless Constancy.
'Twas thus of old, when all th' immortal Dames
Were grac'd by Poes, each with sev'ral Names;
For, Venus, Cytheréa was invok'd,
Alters for Pallas, to Athéna smoak'd:
Such Names were theirs; and thou the most Divine,
Most lov'd of Heav'nly Beauties, Myra's thine.