When Nature form'd You thus divinely Fair,
She meant to shew Mankind what Angels are:
Your Heav'nly Bloom, your just--proportion'd Frame,
Your generous Breast, your Innocence the same,
Celestial All: With native Lustre bright,
Pleasing the Soul as Phoebus glads the Sight.

Nature thus far, her own great Pow'r to shew;
But next, regards the Happiness of You:
Kindly with--holding one delusive Sense,
She saves You from Mankind's Impertinence.