The Character OF A GOOD WOMAN.  

Should my presumptuous Muse pretend to draw  
A Woman, which few Ages ever saw;  
Like bold Prometheus, she must rob the Skies,  
To show what Nature did of old devise:  
How GOD, to make One absolutely True,  
A Pious ANNE, or Blessed VIRGIN drew;  
On whom the Virtues so profusely thrown,  
Are since but-seldom, and but thinly sown:  
As if the Maker had turned Prodigal,  
And in creating Those, exhausted All.  
Hence then, Profaneness, and no more disperse  
Your saucy Censures in detracting Verse:  
No more let Eve the Female Glories slain,  
Since what she lost, Another did regain:  
One, by whose Life it's plainly understood,  
'Tis possible a Woman may be Good:  
Who has no Minute, no small Sand to spare,  
And throw on idle, superstitious Care:  
Nor does she spend the Fragment of a Day,  
Like a Court-Lady, at a Ball or Play:  
Her Life's a Sacred Book, that teaches more  
Than Ten fanatics, that in Pulpits roar.  
Her Church is every where; so oft she prays,  
That where she treads, she consecrates the Place.  
So oft her Soul in pious Raptures flies,  
She lodges here, but lives within the Skies.  
Her Thoughts are stayed, and in a Circle run,  
Obsequious, busy, constant as the Sun,  
Yet clear without his Spots; and like his Ray,  
Round all the heavens she travels in a Day,  
Her Contemplation treads a brighter Way.  
She views each shining Saint, their Counsel knows,  
When Night persuades her to a sweet Repose,  
Her Soul, which in soft Slumbers had retired,  
New sprung from Angel's Breath returns inspired.  
Early she wakes, and puts the Moon to flight,  
Who drives her Coach away, and thinks the Night  
Can need no other Help, no better Light.  
Aurora, blushing, knows her Time to rise,  
Not by the prattling Birds, but by her Eyes;  
Which open, e'er the watchful Cock proclaims  
The Dawning of the Sun's approaching Flames.  
Then first towards Heaven her eager Thoughts aspire,  
With burning Zeal, and a devout Desire;  
Her Prayers, like Mano●●'s Angel, mount in Fire.  
When True Religion, like a welcome Guest,  
Takes up her Lodging in a Noble Breast,  
The Troop of Virtues hasten at her Call,  
As at the Summons of a General.  
Thus armed within, the Female Saint neglects  
That outward Tinsel which adorns her Sex:  
For if Dame Nature, in a careless Haste,  
Has framed her of a course, unfashioned Paste;  
Her Virtue recompenses that Miscare:  
Religious Deformity is Fair.  
But if, to show his Excellence and Art,  
What at a stretch his Pencil could impart,  
The God should draw fine Colours on her Face,  
And lock a Jewel in a Silver Case;  
She thanks her Maker on a double score,  
Much for her Beauty, for her Virtue more.  
Chaste, humble, courteous, sober, silent, wise,  
Brisk, but not wanton; grave, but not precise:  
Sincere, forgiving, honest, just, content,  
Gall-less as Doves, and like them innocent:  
So meek and patiented, that, while she lives here,  
Nor Job nor Moses can be singular.  
Her Charity's diffusive, unconfined,  
Flies far and near, like a refreshing Wind,  
And like the wide-spread Sunbeams, warms Mankind:  
She counts This a Diversion far above  
The false Delights of Wantonness and Love.  
'Tis true, substantial Joy, to seed the Poor;  
The Charitable is an Epicure.  
Her Tongue, that common Ill of Womankind,  
Yields to the nobler Language of the Mind.  
Her Life's a Miracle; her Zeal, a Flame;  
That burns for ever, and is still the Same.    

LONDON, Printed for R. Baldwin near the Oxford-Arms-Inn in Warwick-lane.  
Where also may be had, The Character of a Bad Woman.