MADAM, The blushes I betray, When at your feet I humbly lay These papers, beg you would excuse Th'obedience of a bashful Muse, Who, bowing to your strict command, Trusts her own errors to your hand, Hasty abortives, which, laid by, She meant, ere they were born should die: But since the soft power of your breath Hath call'd them back again from Death, To your sharp judgement now made known, She dares for hers no longer own; The worst she must not, these resign'd She hath to th'fire, and where you find Those your kind Charity admir'd, She writ but what your eyes inspir'd. |