When men exert their utmost pow'rs,
To while away the tedious hours,
With soothing Flatt'ry's art,
When ev'ry art and work well skill'd,
And ev'ry look with poison fill'd,
Assail a woman's heart,
Tho' ardently she'd wish to be
Proof 'gainst the charms of Flattery,
The task is hard, I ween;
Self-love will whisper "'Tis quite true,
Who can there be more fair than you?
Who more admir'd, when seen?"
Then take this tempting gift of thine,
Nor e'er again wish me to shine
In any borrow'd bloom:
Nor rouge, nor compliments, can charm;
Full well I know they both will harm;
Truth is my only plume.