Your word's obey'd; nay, e'en your look
Who can withstand?--Receive the book
Pale as the morn ere ting'd with red,
But empty, as you know whose head
To sounding fame has no pretence,
Spotless as virgin innocence.
Must it be fill'd with dying strains?
The sighs of nymphs, the vows of swains?
With scandal, dress, or China ware,
Chief objects of a lady's care?
Or, with Beau phrase, not understood,
As, vastly little, devilish good;
With polish'd rubs, that current flow,
Though antient fifty years ago;
A list of lovers, or of rhimes,
A cure for Pug,--or Betty's crimes?
Must it contain tea-table heads,
Or crippled verse, or silken shreds?
Who can its real worth declare
When fill'd with such important ware?
Too few its pages to display
The tattle of a single day;
And yet the size is much too large
If these contents are all its charge.
If with such trump'ry it must shine,
Let not a soul e'er read a line;
'Twill issue in your own disgrace,
You'll lose the hearts gain'd by your face.

But, if true merit you place there,
You cannot fill it in a year.
But this advantage then you'll spy,
'Twill pleasure give to ev'ry eye;
Who sees your face receives a dart,
Who sees your book will lose his heart.