O Poverty! thou source of human art

The maid who modestly conceals Her beauties, while she hides, reveals; Give but a glimpse, and fancy draws Whate’er the Grecian Venus was.

But beauty has wings, and too hastily flies, And love, unrewarded, soon sickens and dies.

Can’t I another’s face commend, And to her virtues be a friend, But instantly your forehead lours, As if her merit lessen’d yours?

This is adding insult to injuries.

Time still, as he flies, brings increase to her truth, And gives to her mind what he steals from her youth.

But from the hoop’s bewitching round, Her very shoe has power to wound.