Laura, methinks you're over nice. True, flattery is a shocking vice; Yet sure, whene'er the praise is just, One may commend without disgust. Am I a privilege denied, Indulged by every tongue beside? How singular are all your ways! A woman, and averse to praise! If 'tis offence such truths to tell, Why do your merits thus excel? _10 Since then I dare not speak my mind, A truth conspicuous to mankind; Though in full lustre every grace Distinguish your celestial face: Though beauties of inferior ray (Like stars before the orb of day) Turn pale and fade: I check my lays, Admiring what I dare not praise. If you the tribute due disdain, The Muse's mortifying strain _20 Shall like a woman in mere spite, Set beauty in a moral light. Though such revenge might shock the ear Of many a celebrated fair; I mean that superficial race Whose thoughts ne'er reach beyond their face; What's that to you? I but displease Such ever-girlish ears as these. Virtue can brook the thoughts of age, That lasts the same through every stage. _30 Though you by time must suffer more Than ever woman lost before; To age is such indifference shown, As if your face were not your own. Were you by Antoninus[1] taught? Or is it native strength of thought, That thus, without concern or fright, You view yourself by reason's light? Those eyes of so divine a ray, What are they? Mouldering, mortal clay. _40 Those features, cast in heavenly mould, Shall, like my coarser earth, grow old; Like common grass, the fairest flower Must feel the hoary season's power. How weak, how vain is human pride! Dares man upon himself confide? The wretch who glories in his gain, Amasses heaps on heaps in vain. Why lose we life in anxious cares, To lay in hoards for future years? _50 Can those (when tortured by disease) Cheer our sick heart, or purchase ease? Can those prolong one gasp of breath, Or calm the troubled hour of death? What's beauty? Call ye that your own? A flower that fades as soon as blown. What's man in all his boast of sway? Perhaps the tyrant of a day. Alike the laws of life take place Through every branch of human race, _60 The monarch of long regal line Was raised from dust as frail as mine. Can he pour health into his veins, Or cool the fever's restless pains? Can he (worn down in Nature's course) New-brace his feeble nerves with force? Can he (how vain is mortal power!) Stretch life beyond the destined hour? Consider, man; weigh well thy frame; The king, the beggar is the same. _70 Dust forms us all. Each breathes his day, Then sinks into his native clay. Beneath a venerable yew, That in the lonely church-yard grew, Two ravens sat. In solemn croak Thus one his hungry friend bespoke: 'Methinks I scent some rich repast; The savour strengthens with the blast; Snuff then, the promised feast inhale;