If Rachel should e’er her assistance refuse
Or her kin, for that lady has taken a move
Invoke them no more, bid adieu to your ruses
And copy the forms of the maiden I love.
I hate you, ye cold compositions of art,
All young men despise ye, and old ones reprove
I court the emotions that spring from the heart
The unpractised charms of the maiden I love.
Your eyebrows, your locks, your fantastical dresses
Perhaps may amuse, but never can move;