Time still, as he flies, brings increase to her truth

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?

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

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

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

This is adding insult to injuries.

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