Chapter 2 No.2

Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies,

Made in the last promotion of the blest;

Whose palms, new pluck'd from Paradise,

In spreading branches more sublimely rise,

Rich with immortal green above the rest:

Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star,

Thou roll'st above us, in thy wandering race,

Or, in procession fix'd and regular,

Mov'st with the heavens' majestic pace;

Or, call'd to more superior bliss,

Thou tread'st, with seraphims, the vast abyss:

Whatever happy region is thy place,

Cease thy celestial song a little space;

Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine,

Since Heaven's eternal year is thine.

Hear then a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse,

In no ignoble verse;

But such as thy own voice did practise here,

When thy first fruits of Poesy were given;

To make thyself a welcome inmate there:

While yet a young probationer,

And candidate of heaven.