To the right honourable, the countess of Cork.

Madam,

As some untimely flower, whose bashful head

Ready to drop into her humble bed,

Is rescued by the sun’s prevailing ray,

To share that light with which he guilds the day;

So, this translation of strict eyes afraid,

With conscious blushes, would have sought a shade,

When your resistless power did orders give,

Thus, to recall the timorous fugitive,

Which, to your breath, must all her being own,

Thrive when you smile and wither if you frown.

Yet from submission this assurance grows,

That you’ll protect the person you expose,

Who more delight from such a shelter draws,

Than to obtain, or to desire applause

And your indulgence, would, much rather, choose,

Than to be favourite to every Muse.

For even they request to wait on you,

Who can best judge and best reward them too;

You, who are more than poets can invent,

Of most illustrious and most innocent,

Under your beams their faint ideas sink

And you more nobly live than they could think.

In you, the humble and the brave are met

To show what’s truly and what’s only great;

And all the Clifford’s fame in you does shine,

The greatest honour of the noblest line.

To whom your debt of splendour you have paid

And that (and more) to after times conveyed,

In such a race, as must those wonders do,

That none could act but they, inspire but you.

But as your merit does all praise excel,

So does your mercy all injurious zeal;

And you in that adored advantage live,

That nothing else is left you to forgive;

But even your goodness will itself outshine,

If it can pardon this address of mine.

So, altars once did fire from Heaven enjoy,

Sent but to kindle what it might destroy.