’Tis now the summer of your youth: time has not cropt the roses from…

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?

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

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

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

This is adding insult to injuries.

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