Metin
A certain nymph did once my heart incline,
Whose humor wholly disagreed with mine;
(I, your physician, my disease confess)
I from my own prescriptions found redress.
Her still I represented to my mind,
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With what defects I could suppose or find,
Oh, how ill-shaped her legs, how thick and short!
(Though neater limbs did never nymph support,)
Her arms, said I, how tawny brown they are!
(Though never ivory statue had so fair.)
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How low of statue! (yet the nymph was tall)
Oh, for what costly presents will she call!
What change of lovers! - And of all the rest,
I find this thought strike deepest in my breast.
Such thin partitions good and ill divide,
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That one for t'other may be misapplied.
E'en truth and your own judgment you must strain,
Those blemishes you cannot find, to feign:
Call her blackmoor, if she's but lovely brown;
Monster, if plump; if slender, skeleton.
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