I am rich beyond the dreams of avarice

O Poverty! thou source of human art, Thou great inspirer of the poet’s song!

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?

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

This is adding insult to injuries.

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

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