To Fanny

Never mind how the pedagogue proses,
— You want not antiquity's stamp;
The lip, that such fragrance discloses,
— Oh! never should smell of the lamp.

Old Chloe, whose withering kisses
— Have long set the Loves at defiance,
Now, done with the science of blisses,
— May fly to the blisses of science!

Young Sappho, for want of employments,
— Alone o'er her Ovid may melt,
Condemned but to read of enjoyments,
— Which wiser Corinna had felt.

But for you to be buried in books —
— Oh, Fanny! they're pitiful sages;
Who could not in one of your looks
— Read more than in millions of pages!

Astronomy finds in your eyes
— Better light than she studies above,
And Music must borrow your sighs
— As the melody fittest for Love.

In Ethics — 'tis you that can check,
— In a minute, their doubts and their quarrels;
Oh! show but that mole on your neck,
— And 'twill soon put an end to their morals.

Your Arithmetic only can trip
— When to kiss and to count you endeavor;
But eloquence glows on your lip
— When you swear that you'll love me for ever.

Thus you see what a brilliant alliance
— Of arts is assembled in you, —
A course of more exquisite science
— Man never need wish to pursue.

And, oh! — if a Fellow like me
— May confer a diploma of hearts,
With my lip thus I seal your degree,
— My divine little Mistress of Arts!
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