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.

A Stranger Muse, an Unbeliever too, That Womens Souls such Strength of Vigour knew! Nor less an Atheist to Love’s Power declar’d, Till You a Champion for the Sex appear’d! A Convert now, to both, I feel that Fire Your Words alone can paint! Your Looks inspire! Resistless now, Love’s shafts new pointed fly, Wing’d with Your Flame, and blazing in Your Eye. With sweet, but pow’rful Force, the Charm-shot Heart Receives th’ Impression of the Conqu’ring Dart, And ev’ry Art’ry huggs the Joy-tipt Smart! No more of Phœbus, rising vainly boast, Ye tawny Sons of a luxuriant Coast! While our blest Isle is with such Rays replete, Britain shall glow with more than Eastern Heat!