Bless all, on none an obligation lay;
So turn'd by nature's hand for all that's well,
'Tis scarce a virtue when you most excel.
Tho' sweet your presence, graceful is your mien,
You to be happy want not to be seen;
Though priz'd in public, you can smile alone,
Nor court an approbation but your own:
In throngs, not conscious of those eyes that gaze
In wonder fix'd, though resolute to please;
You, were all blind, would still deserve applause;