SOPHRONIA. VERSES Written occasionally by Reading A Late Scandalous LIBEL DESIGNED, An Aspersion upon the Lady G—.  
AS some vile Atheist that could ne'er agree  
With Conscience, God, or Christianity,  
By Hell inspired, profanes the blessed State;  
Owns no First Cause, the Holy Writ does hate,  
Blasphemes the Heavens, and grows a Reprobate;  
So Envy strove Sophronia's Fame to blast;  
Sophronia, Angel fair, and wise and chaste;  
Blessed Genius of a happy Husband's Life,  
The softest, mildest, and the truest Wife;  
Whose Virtue like the God of the gay Morn,  
Serenely shone, and Love did more adorn.  
And though Malicious Clouds do strive to shade  
It's Glorious Face, and Influence invade;  
Through the black Mists her Lustre soon did pierce,  
And gild with dazzling Beams the Universe.  
Ingrateful, Barbarous and Detracting Age!  
Thou Scene of Impudent, Ill-natured Rage!  
Epitome of Hell, that art so lewd,  
Thou knowst not to distinguish ill from good;  
But as a grovelling Hog no Blossom heeds,  
Thou root'st up Fragrant Flowers with stinking Weeds:  
Be damned in thy own Faction, and thy Care,  
In thy Rebellion cursed, but never dare  
With impious Breath presume to blast the Fair.  
Base, fordid Age! that dost not Merit see;  
But usest Beauty just like Loyalty,  
Swollen big with Malice like a poisonous Toad,  
And on each Flower vents his venomed Load,  
Thou spread'st thy fatal Dew around the Field,  
And fragrant Flowers as well as Weeds are killed:  
So Innocence—  
Pursued by th' ignorant, mistaken Hate,  
Of th' Noisy Crowd, making Defence too late,  
And thought a Villain bears a Villain's Fate;  
Though in the proof it still as guiltless be,  
As Infant-Love, or Virgin-Modesty.  
And thou vile Scribbler of this viler Time,  
That darest to act this poor unmanly Crime,  
And Libel her whose Worth was so sublime,  
Ill-natured Fowler, that thy Snare didst lay,  
For th' harmless Dove, as well as chattering Jay,  
And knewest not pretty Larks from Birds of prey;  
Mayst thou be plunged in the Infernal pit,  
The proper Seat of Envy without Wit.  
Thou hadst thy Malice sure from the City's Scum,  
Their Secretary of Advice from Rome;  
One that for common Knowledge is to seek;  
A Plagiary of Sense as well as Greek:  
Who being by Nature scandalously dull,  
With others Wit still crams his empty Skull;  
(Which poisoned) he spreads round to every Factious Fool:  
Yet Mungrel-like, when e'er the Jowler writes,  
He only howls and grins, but never bites.  
His Brandy-Satyrs are the mildest things  
That ever Railled at Monarchy or Kings;  
And thou deserv'st the Rigour of the Laws,  
For being his Second in so bad a Cause.  
Hadst thou her Modest Look or Beauty seen,  
Herd her once speak, or viewed her Graceful Mien;  
Hadst thou e'er known her charming as the Spring,  
Dance like a Goddess, like an Angel sing,  
She from thy cursed Censure had been free;  
For thine own satire would have poisoned thee.  
Yet still thy Shame makes her more Glory have;  
For Envy is the Touchstone of the Brave;  
And does so little from their Fame purloin,  
That it shows more the Value of the Coin.  
Thus as by Envy Wit gains greater Sway,  
As Frosty Winters make the Spring more gay,  
As Soldiers by their Scars more Honour won,  
As Clouds set off the Brightness of the Sun,  
So does Sophronia merit most Esteem;  
The Foil still adds a Lustre to the Gem.  
FINIS.   

LONDON, Printed for John Seeres, 1681.