Was Nature angry when she formed my clay? Or, urged by haste to finish, could not stay? Or dressed with all her store some perfect she, So lavish there, she'd none to spare for me? I oft converse with those she's deemed to grace With air and shape, fine mien, and charming face: When self-surveyed, the glass hears this reply: "Dear! what a strange, unpolished thing am I!" Not that I think it hard, or once upbraid; Conscious I am that transient charms will fade. Not but, ye fair, ye beauty gives delight: 'Tis pleasing, wond'rous pleasing to the sight. Since here defective, Heaven, be so kind With never-fading charms to dress my mind! |