Jane Turell (1708–1735)

COME, gentle muse, and once more lend thine aid,

O bring thy succor to a humble maid!

How often dost thou liberally dispense

To our dull breast thy quick’ning influence!

By thee inspired, I ’ll cheerful tune my voice,

And love and sacred friendship make my choice.

In my pleased bosom you can freely pour,

A greater treasure than Jove’s golden shower.

Come now, fair muse, and fill my empty mind,

With rich ideas, great and unconfin’d.

Instruct me in those secret arts that lie

Unseen to all but to a poet’s eye.

O let me burn with Sappho’s noble fire,

But not like her for faithless man expire.

And let me rival great Orinda’s fame,

Or like sweet Philomela’s be my name.

Go lead the way, my muse, nor must you stop

Till we have gain’d Parnassus’ shady top:

Till I have view’d those fragrant soft retreats,

Those fields of bliss, the muses’ sacred seats.

I ’ll then devote thee to fair virtue’s fame,

And so be worthy of a poet’s name.