Dear simple girl, those flattering arts,

(From which thou’dst guard frail female hearts,)

Exist but in imagination,

Mere phantoms of thine own creation;

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

Thou’lt there descry that elegance

Which from our *** demands such praises,

But envy in the other raises.—

Then he who tells thee of thy beauty,

Believe me, only does his duty:

Ah! fly not from the candid youth;

It is not flattery,—’tis truth.

