TO THE MOST EXCELLENT PRINCESS THE DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE.  
MY Muse begs pardon of your Grace, that she  
Meets not an Epithet in Poetry  
Which is yet Virgin; It sullies but your worth  
When common words presume to blaze it forth,  
As those of Fair, and Good, with such as these  
Your meaner Meritt's lulled in Ecstasies.  
Can I uncase the Chaste Lucretia's Soul,  
Compared with yours it would appear but foul:  
Or could I turn a Chemist, and from thence  
Distil all Venus into Quintessence;  
Of that extract the most sublime, and pure  
Only deserves to shade your Portraiture.  
Nature in your rich frame has run out all  
The Stock, and Credit of her Principal,  
Be charitable and lend her a recruit,  
For your Perfections made her Bankrupt.  
She cannot run so deep upon the score,  
But you have merit yet can furnish more.  
In you is summed up all which Nature can  
Glory (of Worth) in its Perfection.  
What since sh' has moulded, only Copies were  
Of those fair Graces which concentered are  
In You, from whom she now must borrow all  
She boasts of here, as from th' Original,  
The Graces arned alone, th' Sciences too  
The Honour have to be refined by You.  
What cunning Aristotle darkly writ,  
As with intent to Vizard-mask his wit;  
Your Grace had drawn the Curtain, and we see  
Into each crevice of his subtlety:  
I dare presume he would your Grace should know  
Henceforth he'll walk no more Incognito.  
The Conclave of the Muses next do own,  
To You, the Honour due to Helicon.  
The Poets too, 'mongst whom Ben humbly lays  
At your fair feet his late usurped Bays:  
For such he needs must call them, when to You,  
And to your matchless Muse they are only due.  
Orpheus does press me hard, but to present  
Unto your Grace his sullen Instrument:  
For since YE have graced that Science w'th your hand,  
He vows he never could a Charm command.  
The residue of the Sciences would  
Wait on your Grace did you not think them bold:  
For without leave it may be thought no less  
Than an Intrusion on their Patroness;  
Waiting that Honour with your Poet stand,  
And humbly beg to kiss your Grace's hand.  By H. J. of Grays-Inne, Gent.  

With Allowance,  
Apr. 27. R. L' Estrange.   

LONDON: Printed by Sarah Griffin, 1667.