A Collection of Original Poems | ||
185
Written extempore in a young Lady's Pocket-Book.
Pure as thy virgin heart, these leaves,No taint of modish vice receives;
Judgment and wit, (how rarely join'd!)
The early produce of thy mind,
Direct thy thoughts, by taste refin'd:
But as the purest gold, they say,
Can never mix without allay;
My pencil that allay procures,
The dross is mine—the finer gold is yours.
A Collection of Original Poems | ||