Ephelia

England

To A Proud Beauty.

Imperious Fool! think not because you're Fair,
That you so much above my Converse are:
What though the Gallants sing your Praises loud,
And with false Plaudits make you vainly Proud?
Though they may tell you all Adore your Eyes,
And every Heart's your willing Sacrifice;
Or spin the Flatt'ry finer, and persuade
Your easy Vanity, that we were made
For Foils to make your Luster Shine more Bright,
And must pay Homage to your dazzling Light;
Yet know whatever Stories they may tell,
All you can boast, is, to be pretty well:
Know too, you stately piece of Vanity,
That you are not Alone adored, for I
Fantastically might mince, and smile as well
As you, if Airy Praise my mind could swell:
Nor are the loud Applauses that I have,
For a fine Face, or things that Nature gave;
But for acquired Parts, a gen'rous Mind,
A pleasing Converse, neither Nice nor Kind:
When they that strive to Praise you most, can say
No more, but that you're Handsome, brisk and gay:
Since then my Fame's as great as yours is, why
Should you behold me with a loathing Eye?
If you at me cast a disdainful Eye,
In biting Satire I will Rage so high,
Thunder shall pleasant be to what I'll write,
And you shall Tremble at my very Sight;
Warned by your Danger, none shall dare again,
Provoke my Pen to write in such a strain.
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