Ah, why is woman thus by man ador'd,
The comeliest object in creation's hoard?
Ah why, where Nature's plastic hand neglects,
Has he an eye to beautify defects?
To hold her perfect in his partial sight,
His fancy's idol, and his heart's delight?

Is it because her form is fair,
Though destitute of ardour there?
Is it because more perfect made,
Of finer mould, or nobler grade?
No; 'tis because, with strong control,
Her gentle aspect softens on his soul.
Yes; 'tis because his eye can trace
A sympathy serene,
A fascinating grace,
Depicted in her mein.
And, O! her manners—all her own;
Her voice—of an etherial tone;
Her magic smile—offspring of mind,
By thought improv'd, by taste refin'd:—
These, above all, can deck the face,
And make a blemish seem a real grace.