Had met her in a public place,
Without distinguishing her face;
Much less could his declining age
Vanessa’s earliest thoughts engage;
And, if her youth indifference met,
His person must contempt beget;
Or grant her passion be sincere,
How shall his innocence be clear?
[3]Appearances were all so strong,
The world must think him in the wrong;
Would say, he made a treacherous use
Of wit, to flatter and seduce;
The town would swear, he had betray’d
By magic spells the harmless maid: 
And every beau would have his joke,
That scholars were like other folk;
And, when Platonic flights were over,
The tutor turn’d a mortal lover! 
So tender of the young and fair! 
It show’d a true paternal care—­
Five thousand guineas in her purse! 
The doctor might have fancied worse.—­
  Hardly at length he silence broke,
And falter’d every word he spoke;
Interpreting her complaisance,
Just as a man sans consequence. 
She rallied well, he always knew: 
Her manner now was something new;
And what she spoke was in an air
As serious as a tragic player. 
But those who aim at ridicule
Should fix upon some certain rule,
Which fairly hints they are in jest,
Else he must enter his protest: 
For let a man be ne’er so wise,
He may be caught with sober lies;
A science which he never taught,
And, to be free, was dearly bought;
For, take it in its proper light,
’Tis just what coxcombs call a bite. 
  But, not to dwell on things minute,
Vanessa finish’d the dispute;
Brought weighty arguments to prove
That reason was her guide in love. 
She thought he had himself described,
His doctrines when she first imbibed;
What he had planted, now was grown;
His virtues she might call her own;
As he approves, as he dislikes,
Love or contempt her fancy strikes. 
Self-love, in nature rooted fast,
Attends us first, and leaves us last;
Why she likes him, admire not at her;
She loves herself, and that’s the matter. 
How was her tutor wont to praise
The geniuses of ancient days! 
(Those authors he so oft had named,
For learning, wit, and wisdom, famed;)
Was struck with love, esteem, and awe,
For persons whom he never saw. 
Suppose Cadenus flourish’d then,
He must adore such godlike men. 
If one short volume could comprise
All that was witty, learn’d, and wise,
How would it be esteem’d and read,
Although the writer long were dead! 
If such an author were alive,
How all would for his friendship strive,
And come in crowds to see his face! 
And this she takes to be her case. 
Cadenus answers every end,
The book, the author, and the friend;
The utmost her desires will reach,
Is but to learn what he can teach: 
His converse is a system fit
Alone to fill up all her wit;
While every passion of her mind
In him is centred and confined.