To
a
Lady
who
was
libell'd
.
When
Cynthia
,
Regent
of
the
Tides
,
Pale
in
meridian
Pride
presides
;
A
Sov'reign
Pow'r
the
Goddess
claims
O'er
Seas
,
and
Sea-supplying
Streams
;
The
River
of
the
richest
Source
With
Ease
she
turns
,
and
checks
his
Course
;
His
crystal
Clearness
can
defile
With
ev'ry
Filth
,
and
Salt
as
vile
;
However
strong
,
and
smooth
,
and
pure
,
Her
Tyranny
he
must
endure
;
Till
,
her
Dominion
in
the
Wain
,
He
clears
,
and
is
himself
again
.
Thus
,
over
black
,
benighted
Brains
,
Fell
Envy
,
baleful
Goddess
,
reigns
;
O'er
mortal
Passions
,
pale
,
presides
;
Passions
,
the
Soul's
tumultuous
Tides
;
Which
,
in
their
fierce
,
resistless
Sway
,
Invade
all
Merit
in
their
Way
;
With
Ease
the
clearest
Truths
confute
,
With
Ease
the
purest
Worth
pollute
;
Check
ev'ry
Virtue
in
its
Course
,
And
taint
,
impetuous
,
to
its
Source
,
The
Current
of
the
fairest
Fame
,
By
forcing
Filth
into
the
Stream
.
So
are
you
sully'd
for
a
Season
,
Till
Rage
recoils
,
and
yields
to
Reason
:
Then
turns
the
Tide
—
your
Credit
clears
,
And
all
your
real
Worth
appears
.