TO
Mrs. ELIZ. HAYWOOD,
ON HER
NOVEL
CALL’D
Love in Excess, &c.
FAIN wou’d I here my vast Ideas raise,
To paint the Wonders of Eliza’s praise;
But like young Artists where their Stroaks decay,
I shade those Glories which I can’t display.
Thy Prose in sweeter Harmony refines,
Than Numbers flowing thro’ the Muse’s Lines;
What Beauty ne’er cou’d melt, thy Touches fire,
And raise a Musick that can Love inspire;
Soul-thrilling Accents all our Senses wound,
And Strike with softness, whilst they Charm with sound!
When thy COUNT pleads, what Fair his Suit can flye?
Or when thy Nymph laments, what Eyes are dry?
Ev’n Nature’s self in Sympathy appears,
Yeilds Sigh for Sigh, and melts in equal Tears;
For such Descriptions thus at once can prove
The Force of Language, and the Sweets of Love.
The Myrtle’s Leaves with those of Fame entwine,
And all the Glories of that Wreath are thine?
As Eagles can undazzl’d view the Force
Of scorching Phœbus in his Noon-day Course;
Thy Genius to the God its Luster plays,
Meets his fierce Beams, and darts him Rays for Rays!
Oh Glorious Strength! Let each succeeding Page
Still boast those Charms and luminate the Age;
So shall thy beamful Fires with Light divine
Rise to the Sphere, and there triumphant Shine.
RICHARD SAVAGE.
