Sent to a Lady at a Ball


Go, Muse, and strike the raptur'd lyre,
'Midst yonder group of festive youth,
Nor wear thou Fiction's gay attire,
But the white robe of modest Truth.
Among the fair, who shall thy strain attend,
Thou shalt discriminate a polish'd friend.
Tell her, that if her lovely face,
Nor beauty, nor expression knew,
Nor her fair form a native grace,
Allotted only to a few;
Still would she Friendship ever faithful find,
From all who own the higher worth of mind.
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