Dear simple girl, those flattering arts,
(From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts,)ii
Exist but in imagination,
Mere phantoms of thine own creation; iii
For he who views that witching grace,
That perfect form, that lovely face,
With eyes admiring, oh! believe me,
He never wishes to deceive thee:
Once in thy polish'd mirror glance iv
Thou'lt there descry that elegance
Which from our sex demands such praises,
But envy in the other raises. -
Then he who tells thee of thy beauty, v
Believe me, only does his duty:
Ah! fly not from the candid youth;
It is not flattery, - 'tis truth. vi
Footnote i: 'Answer to the above.'
Footnote ii: 'From which you'd.'
'Mere phantoms of your own creation;
For he who sees'.
'Once let you at your mirror glance
You'll there descry that elegance,'
'Then he who tells you of your beauty.'
'It is not flattery, but truth'.