For next to praise, she values nothing less.
What picture's yonder, loosen'd from its frame?
Or is't Asturia? that affected dame.
The brightest forms, through affectation, fade
To strange new things, which nature never made.
Frown not, ye fair! so much your sex we prize,
We hate those arts that take you from our eyes.
In Albucinda's native grace is seen
What you, who labour at perfection, mean.
Short is the rule, and to be learnt with ease,