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If I confess the art, I would proceed

To say of such that every maid has need.

Then when you llatter— in your language— praise,

In our own view you must our valne raise

And must we not, to this mistaken man,

Appear as like his picture as we can?

If you will call— nay, treat us as divine,

Must we not something to your thoughts incline?

If men of sense will worship whom they love,

Think you the idol will the error prove?

What! show him all her glory is pretence,

And make an idior of ihis man of sense?

Then, too, suppose we should his praise refuse, And clear his mind, we may our lover lose;

In fact, you make us more than nature makes, And we, no doubt, consent to your mistakes; NYou will, we know, until the frenzy cools,

Enjoy ihe transient paradise of fools;