LINES WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY’S ALBUM.
Miss Ann, you are, it seems to me,
An essence all ethereal;
The brightest being that can be,
Entirely immaterial.
A pencil tipp’d with solar rays
Your charms could scarcely blazon;
Contrasted with your beauty’s blaze
Bright Sol’s a pewter basin.
Transcendent little sprig of light,
If rhymes are always true,
An angel is an ugly sprite,
Compared to Sylph like you.
You frowning tell me, “This indeed
Is flattery past all bearing,
I ne’er before did hear nor read
Yes, this is flattery, sure enough,
And its exaggeration
May teach you how to hold such stuff
In utter detestation.
Should beaux your ladyship accost
With something like this flummery,
Tell them their labor will be lost,
For this transcends their mummery.
The man whose favor’s worth a thought,
To flattery can’t descend;
The servile sycophant is not
Your lover nor your friend.