IV.

But wit's like a luxuriant vine; Unless to virtue's prop it join, Firm and erect towards Heav'n bound; Tho' it with beauteous leaves and pleasant fruit be crown'd, It lyes deform'd, and rotting on the ground. Now shame and blushes on us all, Who our own sex superior call! Orinda does our boasting sex out do, Not in wit only, but in virtue too. She does above our best examples rise, In hate of vice, and scorn of vanities. Never did spirit of the manly make, And dipp'd all o'er in learning's sacred lake, A temper more invulnerable take. No violent passion could an entrance find, Into the tender goodness of her mind; Through walls of stone those furious bullets may Force their impetuous way, When her soft breast they hit, damped and dead they lay.