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Anne Kingsmill Finch - A Letter ToThe Same Person
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Sure of Success, to You I boldly write, 
Whilst Love do`s ev`ry tender Line endite; 
Love, who is justly President of Verse, 
Which all his Servants write, or else rehearse. 
Phoebus (howe`er mistaken Poets dream) 
Ne`er us`d a Verse, till Love became his Theme. 
To his stray`d Son, still as his Passion rose, 
He rais`d his hasty Voice in clam`rous Prose: 
But when in Daphne he wou`d Love inspire, 
He woo`d in Verse, set to his silver Lyre. 

  The Trojan Prince did pow`rful Numbers join 
To sing of War; but Love was the Design: 
And sleeping Troy again in Flames was drest, 
To light the Fires in pitying Dido`s Breast. 


  Love without Poetry`s refining Aid 
Is a dull Bargain, and but coarsely made; 
Nor e`er cou`d Poetry successful prove, 
Or touch the Soul, but when the Sense was Love. 


  Oh! cou`d they both in Absence now impart 
Skill to my Hand, but to describe my Heart; 
Then shou`d you see impatient of your Stay 
Soft Hopes contend with Fears of sad Delay; 
Love in a thousand fond Endearments there, 
And lively Images of You appear. 
But since the Thoughts of a Poetick Mind 
Will never be to Syllables confin`d; 
And whilst to fix what is conceiv`d, we try, 
The purer Parts evaporate and dye: 
You must perform what they want force to do, 
And think what your ARDELIA thinks of you.
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