Jeu D'Esprit Upon A Very Pretty Woman Asking The Author His Opinion Of Beauty.

Oft does the lucid pebble shine,
Just cover'd by the murm'ring sea;
Thus precious, thus conceal'd, it shews,
Fair maid! thy mind and modesty.

If searching eyes the stone discern,
Quick will the hand of Art remove
Each ruder part, till, brilliant grown,
It seals the fond record of love.

And here the sweet connexion ends,
Eliza! 'twixt the gem and thee;
For thou wast polish'd from the first,
By Nature's hand, more happily!

Whilst, in a dress that one might swear
The whole was made of woven air,
Pert Fashion spreads her senseless sway
Over the giddy and the gay
(Who think, by showing all their charms,
Lovers will fly into their arms),
In thee shall Wit and Virtue find
A friend more genial to their mind;
And Modesty shall gain in thee
A surer, chaster, victory.

When lovely Delphine sought the crowded scene,
The painter's mimic pow'r no longer mov'd;
All turn'd to gaze upon her beauteous mien,
None envied her, for, as they look'd, they lov'd.

Amid the proud display of forms so fair,
Of each fine tint the pencil can impart,
Nature with rapture seem'd to lead her there,
To prove how she could triumph over Art.

Reader! I do not wish to brag;
But, to display Eliza's skill,
I'd proudly be the vilest rag
That ever went to paper-mill.

Content in pieces to be cut;
Tho' sultry were the summer-skies,
Pleas'd between flannel I'd be put,
And after bath'd in jellied size.

Tho' to be squeez'd and hang'd I hate,
For thee, sweet girl! upon my word,
When the stout press had forc'd me flat,
I'd be suspended on a cord.

And then, when dried and fit for use,
Eliza! I would pray to thee,
If with thy pen thou would'st amuse,
That thou would'st deign to write on me.

Gad's bud! how pleasant it would prove
Her pretty chit-chat to convey,
P'rhaps be the record of her love,
Told in some coy enchanting way.

Or, if her pencil she would try,

When men exert their utmost pow'rs,
To while away the tedious hours,
With soothing Flatt'ry's art,
When ev'ry art and work well skill'd,
And ev'ry look with poison fill'd,
Assail a woman's heart,

Tho' ardently she'd wish to be
Proof 'gainst the charms of Flattery,
The task is hard, I ween;
Self-love will whisper "'Tis quite true,
Who can there be more fair than you?
Who more admir'd, when seen?"

Then take this tempting gift of thine,
Nor e'er again wish me to shine
In any borrow'd bloom:
Nor rouge, nor compliments, can charm;
Full well I know they both will harm;
Truth is my only plume.

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 sex 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.