TO MY DEAR SISTER, MRS. S.: THE EXCUSE by WILLIAM HAMMOND

NOR can your sex's easiness excuse,
Or countenance your tears to be profuse.
Some She's there are, whose breath is only sighs;
Who weep their own, in others' obsequies:
But in the reason, like the Sun at noon,
Dispels usurping clouds of passion;
Where feminine defects are wanting, there
All feminine excuses wanting are:
Think not, since Virtue thee above them rears,
A woman's name can privilege thy tears.
Fortune material things only controls;
But doth herself pay homage unto souls:
There hath no power, can do no injury;
The pavement where the stars their dances form
By their own music, is above all storm:
For meteors but imperfect mixtures are
In the raw bosom of distemper'd air:
Then let, thy soul shine in her crystal sphere!
They're Comets in the troubled air appear.

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