Cruel by nature, they for kindness hate,
And scorn you for those ills themselves create:
If on your frame our sex a blot has thrown,
’Twill ever stick, through malice of your own.
Most hard! in pleasing your chief glory lies;
And yet from pleasing your chief dangers rise:
Then please the best; and know, for men of sense,
Your strongest charms are native innocence;
Arts on the mind, like paint upon the face,
Fright him that’s worth your love from your embrace,