A PINDARIC POEM TO THE Reverend Doctor Burnet, ON THE Honour he did me of Enquiring after me and my MUSE. By Mrs. A. BEHN.  
LONDON, Printed for R. Bentley, and are to be sold by Richard Baldwin in the Old Bailie. 1689.   

A PINDARIC POEM.  

(1)  
WHEN Old Rome's Candidates aspired to Fame,  
And did the People's Suffrages obtain  
For some great Consul, or a Caesar's Name;  
The Victor was not half so Pleased and Vain,  
As I, when given the Honour of your Choice,  
And Preference had in that one single Voice;  
That Voice, from whence Immortal Wit still flows;  
Wit that at once is Solemn all and Sweet,  
Where Noblest Eloquence and Judgement shows  
The Inspiring Mind Illustrious, Rich, and Great;  
A Mind that can inform your wondrous Pen  
In all that's Perfect and Sublime:  
And with an Art beyond the Wit of Men,  
On what e'er Theme, on what e'er great Design,  
It carries a Commanding Force, like that of Writ Divine.   

(2)  
With Powerful Reasoning dressed in finest Sense,  
A thousand ways my Soul you can Invade,  
And spite of my Opinions weak Defence,  
Against my Will, you Conquer and Persuade.  
Your Language soft as Love, betrays the Heart,  
And at each Period fixes a Resistless Dart,  
While the fond Listner, like a Maid undone,  
Inspired with Tenderness she fears to own;  
In vain essays her Freedom to Regain:  
The fine Ideas in her Soul remain,  
And Please, and Charm, even while they Grieve and Pain   

(3)  
But yet how well this Praise can Recompense  
For all the welcome Wounds (before) you'd given!  
Scarce any thing but You and Heaven  
Such Grateful Bounties can dispense,  
As that Eternity of Life can give;  
So famed by you my Verse Eternally shall live:  
Till now, my careless Muse no higher strove  
T' enlarge her Glory, and extend her Wings;  
Than underneath Parnassus' Grove,  
To Sing of Shepherds, and their humble Love;  
But never durst, like Cow, tune her Strings,  
To sing of Heroes and of Kings.  
But since by an Authority Divine,  
She is allowed a more exalted Thought;  
She will be valued now as Currant Coin,  
Whose Stamp alone gives it the Estimate,  
Tho' out of an inferior Metal wrought.   

(4)  
But oh! if from your Praise I feel  
A Joy that has no Parallel!  
What must I suffer when I cannot pay  
Your Goodness, your own generous way?  
And make my stubborn Muse your Just Commands obey.  
My Muse that would endeavour fain to glide  
With the fair prosperous Gale, and the full driving Tide  
But Loyalty Commands with Pious Force,  
That stops me in the thriving Course,  
The Breeze that wafts the Crowding Nations o'er,  
Leaves me unpityed far behind  
On the Forsaken Barren Shore,  
To Sigh with Echo, and the Murmuring Wind;  
While all the Inviting Prospect I survey,  
With Melancholy Eyes I view the Plains,  
Where all I see is Ravishing and Gay,  
And all I hear is Mirth in loudest Strains;  
Thus while the Chosen Seed possess the Promised Land,  
I like the Excluded Prophet stand,  
The Fruitful Happy Soil can only see,  
But am forbid by Fates Decree  
To share the Triumph of the joyful Victory.   

(5)  
'Tis to your Pen, Great Sir, the Nation owes  
For all the Good this Mighty Change has wrought;  
'Twas that the wondrous Method did dispose,  
ere the vast Work was to Perfection brought.  
Oh Strange effect of a Seraphic Quill!  
That can by unperceptable degrees  
Change every Notion, every Principle  
To any Form, its Great Dictator please:  
The Sword a Feeble Power, compared to That,  
And to the Nobler Pen subordinate;  
And of less use in Bravest turns of State:  
While that to Blood and Slaughter has recourse,  
This Conquers Hearts with soft prevailing Force:  
So when the wiser Greeks o'ercome their Foes,  
It was not by the Barbarous Force of Blows.  
When a long Ten Years Fatal War had failed,  
With luckier Wisdom they at last assailed,  
Wisdom and Counsel which alone prevailed.  
Not all their Numbers the Famed Town could win,  
'Twas Nobler Stratagem that let the Conqueror in   

(6)  
Tho' I the Wond'rous Change deplore,  
That makes me Useless and Forlorn,  
Yet I the great Design adore,  
Tho' Ruined in the Universal Turn.  
Nor can my Indigence and Lost Repose,  
Those Meager Furies that surround me close,  
Convert my Sense and Reason more  
To this Unpresidented Enterprise,  
Than that a Man so Great, so Learned, so Wise,  
The Brave Achievement Owns and nobly Justifies.  
'Tis you, Great Sir, alone, by Heaven preserved,  
Whose Conduct has so well the Nation served,  
'Tis you that to Posterity shall give  
This Ages Wonders, and its History.  
And Great NASSAV shall in your Annals live  
To all Futurity:  
Your Pen shall more Immortalize his Name,  
Than even his Own Renowned and Celebrated Fame.   
FINIS.