When _Custom_ calls I must away, She calls me now, & chides my Stay; She asks my usual annual care, To compliment some worthy Fair; To hasten to _Apollo's_ Shrine, For Aid to form a _Valentine_. But if _Apollo_ I invoke, Gay _Fancy_ I shall sure provoke Who swears these yearly Rhimes should be, From Order, Sense, & Learning free; That if each line be fill'd with Stuff, Twill please a Lady well enough That Fancy only can inspire A Youthful Heart with frantic Fire, To write such inconsistent Lines, As always please in Valentines; That if Apollo lends his Aid, And I address a well-bred Maid; With Verses plain yet fill'd with sense, The Girl would curse my Impudence; Pedantic, earth-born Fellow! he, A hobbling Tutor write to me! Let him go teach his Scholars Greek, Or learn, himself, to dance, to speak; And learn to please, or never dare, Disturb the Quiet of the Fair. She spoke; but why should I obey, What unsubstantial Phantoms say? Yet _Fancy_ urg'd her case so well, No human Mind could guess or tell, What hidden Scheme she had in View, Nor what the _Baggage_ meant to do: 'Till _Pallas_ Queen of wisdom came, And told the mischief of the Dame, For Fancy, Madam, early knew, Twas my Desire to write to you; She therefore whisper'd in my Ear, That you would nought but Nonsense hear In hopes to baffle my Design, Or form a vulgar Valentine. But Pallas told me what to do If I design'd to write to you, Make _Humour_, Truth, & Sense conspire, With genuine poetic-Fire, To form a Song in Taste & Ease, Such would your Infant-Bosom please. Now, Miss, accept in humble Lays, My weak attempt to sing your Praise; Nor think it rudeness when I try, To hold your virtues up on high, To shew their bright yet living Blaze And make inraptured Numbers gaze; _Slander_ herself must disappear, Or justify my Conduct here, Since _Fancy_, _Wit_, & _Pallas_, too, Are all contending, Miss, for you. I in the common sportful Way, With pleasure now of you might say, That both your Eyes are glowing Darts, Which only seen do wound our hearts; That Venus' Son by her command Waits always at your fair Right-Hand, And that the _Loves_ in Beauty drest, Are always hov'ring near your Breast; But, tho Such words appli'd to you, In every sense should all be true; And if you hear such pleasant Rhimes, Sung in your Ear ten thousand Times: Yet always doubt what makes you more, Than ever _Mortal_ was before. When any Girl; with beauty drest, And Innocence above the Rest, Tho' _Fortune_ has withheld her Store, And left the blushing Maiden poor, Yet Ladie's look with envious Eyes, And well-born Men the _Angel_ prize. Or when the God of Wealth is kind,