Classic Poem

Full of my self, resolv'd to rail,
I summon'd all my pride;
Ill-nature form'd th' invidious tale,
And rage its aid supply'd.

Each fav'rite female vice I paint,
And every folly join:
In short, description is but faint;
A libel was each line.

The picture thus ill-nature fram'd,
By malice was apply'd;
Those real charms for which you're fam'd,
I took most pains to hide.

But how unlike the finish'd draught
Of C LAYTON'S lovely mind!
Ev'n I who drew it, knew it not,
Nor could one likeness find.

Thus, dawber like, with low design,
I spoilt a beauteous frame;
And conscious of each faulty line,
Was forc'd to write your name.

In Eden thus, its shades among,
Ere vice could six a stain,
The serpent roll'd his pointless tongue,
And hiss'd and twin'd in vain.

Again fair virtue loves to dwell
In your engaging form;
As pure as Eve before she fell,
As free from inward storm.

Keen satire now, with soften'd gaze,
Unbends her wrinkled brow;
And looks serenely gen'rous praise,
Who never prais'd till now.