And harmless beauty their pursuit and prey;
As bad as giants in the ancient times
Were modern lovers, and the same their crimes: 
Soon as she heard of her all-conquering charms,
At once she fled to her defensive arms;
Conn’d o’er the tales her maiden aunt had told,
And, statue like, was motionless and cold: 
From prayer of love, like that Pygmalion pray’d,
Ere the hard stone became the yielding maid,
A different change in this chaste nymph ensued,
And turn’d to stone the breathing flesh and blood: 
Whatever youth described his wounded heart,
“He came to rob her, and she scorn’d his art;
And who of raptures once presumed to speak,
Told listening maids he thought them fond and weak;
But should a worthy man his hopes display
In few plain words, and beg a yes or nay,
He would deserve an answer just and plain,
Since adulation only moved disdain —
Sir, if my friends object not, come again.” 
   Hence, our grave Lover, though he liked the face,
Praised not a feature—­dwelt not on a grace;
But in the simplest terms declared his state: 
“A widow’d man, who wish’d a virtuous mate;
Who fear’d neglect, and was compell’d to trust
Dependants wasteful, idle, or unjust;
Or should they not the trusted stores destroy,
At best, they could not help him to enjoy;
But with her person and her prudence bless’d,
His acts would prosper, and his soul have rest: 
Would she be his?”—­“Why, that was much to say;
She would consider; he awhile might stay: 
She liked his manners, and believed his word;
He did not flatter, flattery she abhorr’d: 
It was her happy lot in peace to dwell —
Would change make better what was now so well? 
But she would ponder.”  “This,” he said, “was kind;”
And begg’d to know “when she had fix’d her mind. 
   Romantic maidens would have scorn’d the air,
And the cool prudence of a mind so fair;
But well it pleased this wiser maid to find
Her own mild virtues in her lover’s mind. 
   His worldly wealth she sought, and quickly grew
Pleased with her search, and happy in the view
Of vessels freighted with abundant stores,
Of rooms whose treasures press’d the groaning floors;
And he of clerks and servants could display
A little army on a public day: 
Was this a man like needy bard to speak
Of balmy lip, bright eye, or rosy cheek? 
   The sum appointed for her widow’d state,
Fix’d by her friend, excited no debate;
Then the kind lady gave her hand and heart,
And, never finding, never dealt with art: 
In his engagements she had no concern;
He taught her not, nor had she wish to learn;
On him in all occasions she relied,
His word her surety, and his worth her pride. 
   When ship was launch’d, and merchant Paul had share,
A bounteous feast became the lady’s care;
Who then her entry to the dinner made,
In costly raiment, and with kind parade.