That perfect form, that lovely face;
With eyes admiring, oh! believe me,
He never wishes to deceive thee;
Once let you at your mirror glance,
You'll there descry that elegance,
Which from our sex demands such praises,
But envy in the other raises.—
Then he who tells you of your beauty,
Believe me only does his duty;
Ah! fly not from the candid youth,