Page:Poetical Works of John Oldham.djvu/56

46 The scattered glories of her happy sex In her bright soul as in their centre mix: And all that they possess but by retail, She hers by just monopoly can call; Whose sole example does more virtues shew, Than schoolmen ever taught, or ever knew. No act did e'er within her practice fall, Which for the atonement of a blush could call: 'No word of hers e'er greeted any ear, But what a saint at her last gasp might hear: Scarcely her thoughts have ever sullied been With the least print or stain of native sin: Devout she is, as holy hermits are, Who share their time 'twixt ecstasy and prayer; Modest, as infant roses in their bloom, Who in a blush their fragrant lives consume: So chaste, the dead themselves are only more, Who lie divorced from objects, and from power; So pure, could virtue in a shape appear, 'Twould choose to have no other form, but her; So much a saint, I scarce dare call her so, For fear to wrong her with a name too low: Such the seraphic brightness of her mind, I hardly can believe her womankind: But think some nobler being does appear, Which, to instruct the world, has left the sphere, And condescends to wear a body here; Or, if she mortal be, and meant to show The greater art, by being formed below; Sure Heaven preserved her, by the fall uncurst, To tell how good the sex was made at first.