Who on the violet can sweets bestow?
Or needs the rose with borrow’d colours glow?
Great Nature’s beauties ever reach the heart,
And spurn the trivial aids of needless art.
No art directs the vernal bloom to blow,
No art assists the murmering streams to flow,
And the sweet songsters of the vocal grove,
By art unaided, swell their throats to love.
Phœbe and Elaira charm’d of old
Fair Helen’s brothers, not with gems or gold;