THOU, whom nor honours, wealth, nor youth can spoil
With the least vice of each luxuriant soil,
Say, YORKE, (for sure, if any, you can tell)
What Virtue is, who practise it so well;
Say, where inhabits this Sultana queen;
Prais'd and ador'd by all, but rarely seen:
By what sure marks her essence can we trace,
When each religion, faction, age, and place
Sets up some fancy'd idol of its own,
A vain pretender to her sacred throne?
In man, too oft a well-dissembled part,
A self-denying pride in woman's heart,
In synods faith, and in the fields of fame
Valour usurps her honours, and her name.
Whoe'er their sense of Virtue cou'd express,
'Tis still by something they themselves possess.
Hence youth good-humour, frugal craft old age,
Warm politicians term it party-rage;
True churchmen zeal right orthodox; and hence
Fools think it gravity, and wits pretence;
To constancy alone fond lovers join it,
And maids unask'd to chastity confine it.