Dear Simple Girl, Those Flattering Arts, (From Which Thou'Dst Guard Frail Female Hearts,) Exist But In Imagination, Mere Phantoms Of Thine Own Creation; For He Who Views That Witching Grace, That Perfect Form, That Lovely Face, With Eyes Admiring, Oh! Believe Me, He Never Wishes To Deceive Thee: Once In Thy Polish'D Mirror Glance Thou'Lt There Descry That Elegance Which From Our Sex Demands Such Praises, But Envy In The Other Raises. - Then He Who Tells Thee Of Thy Beauty, Believe Me, Only Does His Duty: Ah! Fly Not From The Candid Youth; It Is Not Flattery, - 'Tis Truth.