Classic Poem

Among so many Voices as we hear,
Imprinting diff'rent Sounds , upon the Ear .
Our own , does so imperfectly return,
As we the Words , more than the Sound discern.
Among so many Faces , as the Eye
Distinctly copies, for the Memory ,
In Lines as various, as they first were show'n;
We rarely see , or seen, forget our own .
What then remains, but that we should direct
Both Face , and Voice , to what will both reflect ?
Hid to our selves, our Friend's impartial Praise ,
The best Reflexion of our selves, does raise.
Why will not you, our Praises then admit,
Who, best our highest Elogies can fit?
Claiming Applause , the more Applause you shun,
At once above Flatt'ry, and Detraction :
Your Modesty , does so our Praise o'recome,
It moves our Envy , and strikes Praises dumb.

The greatest Glories of this World, seem so
To gaze on meaner Beauties here below;
Exposing their fair Lights to common View ,
But shine not to themselves , no more then You .