Love and obedience to her lord she bore;
  She much obey’d him, but she loved him more: 
  Not awed to duty by superior sway,
  But taught by his indulgence to obey. 
  Thus we love God, as author of our good; 180
  So subjects love just kings, or so they should. 
  Nor was it with ingratitude return’d;
  In equal fires the blissful couple burn’d;
  One joy possess’d them both, and in one grief they mourn’d. 
  His passion still improved; he loved so fast
  As if he fear’d each day would be her last. 
  Too true a prophet to foresee the fate
  That should so soon divide their happy state;
  When he to heaven entirely must restore
  That love, that heart, where he went halves before. 190
  Yet as the soul is all in every part,
  So God and he might each have all her heart.

    So had her children too; for charity
  Was not more fruitful, or more kind than she: 
  Each under other by degrees they grew;
  A goodly perspective of distant view. 
  Anchises look’d not with so pleased a face,
  In numbering o’er his future Roman race,
  And marshalling the heroes of his name,
  As, in their order, next to light they came. 200
  Nor Cybele, with half so kind an eye,
  Survey’d her sons and daughters of the sky;
  Proud, shall I say, of her immortal fruit? 
  As far as pride with heavenly minds may suit. 
  Her pious love excell’d to all she bore;
  New objects only multiplied it more. 
  And as the chosen found the pearly grain
  As much as every vessel could contain;
  As in the blissful vision each shall share
  As much of glory as his soul can bear; 210
  So did she love, and so dispense her care. 
  Her eldest thus, by consequence, was best,
  As longer cultivated than the rest. 
  The babe had all that infant care beguiles,
  And early knew his mother in her smiles: 
  But when dilated organs let in day
  To the young soul, and gave it room to play,
  At his first aptness, the maternal love
  Those rudiments of reason did improve: 
  The tender age was pliant to command; 220
  Like wax it yielded to the forming hand: 
  True to the artificer, the labour’d mind
  With ease was pious, generous, just, and kind;
  Soft for impression, from the first prepared,
  Till virtue with long exercise grew hard: 
  With every act confirm’d, and made at last
  So durable as not to be effaced,
  It turn’d to habit; and, from vices free,
  Goodness resolved into necessity.

    Thus fix’d she virtue’s image, that’s her own, 230
  Till the whole mother in the children shone;
  For that was their perfection:  she was such,
  They never could express her mind too much. 
  So unexhausted her perfections were,
  That, for more children, she had more to spare;
  For souls unborn, whom her untimely death
  Deprived of bodies, and of mortal breath;
  And (could they take the impressions of her mind)
  Enough still left to sanctify her kind.