Dear simple girl, those flattering arts,

(From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts,) b

Exist but in imagination,

Mere phantoms of thine own creation c ;

For he who views that witching grace,

That perfect form, that lovely face,

With eyes admiring, oh! believe me,

He never wishes to deceive thee:

Once in thy polish'd mirror glance d

Thou'lt there descry that elegance

Which from our sex demands such praises,

But envy in the other raises.—

Then he who tells thee of thy beauty e ,

Believe me, only does his duty:

Ah! fly not from the candid youth;

It is not flattery, — 'tis truth f .

July, 1804.

Answer to the above.

From which you'd.

Mere phantoms of your own creation;

For he who sees.

Once let you at your mirror glance

You'll there descry that elegance,

Then he who tells you of your beauty.

It is not flattery, but truth.