For Wit and Beauty she may vie
With any mortal Brain, or Face:
But, ah! where's noble Virtue? where shall I
Thy venerable Footsteps trace?
Come, Queen of Graces, to thy beauteous Throne,
And let not Sin usurp what ought to be thine own.

Without this, t'other must not heal
Thy wound; then cease, and love no more;
Who courts a Woman that is fair, but ill,
A painted Devil doth adore.
When Satan like an Angel doth appear
Weak Mortals to delude, then he resembles her.

Hellish her Soul, her Face Divine;
This charms, the other doth affright:
Light shines without, but Darkness dwells within,
She's like a Black--moor clad in White.
My Mind can never rest, unless she were
Made by some skilful Hand more Vertuous or less Fair.