More from Edward Moore

  1. Time still, as he flies, brings increase to her truth, And gives to her mind what he steals from her youth.
  2. But from the hoop's bewitching round, Her very shoe has power to wound.
  3. The maid who modestly conceals Her beauties, while she hides, reveals; Give but a glimpse, and fancy draws Whate'er the Grecian Venus was.
  4. Can't I another's face commend, And to her virtues be a friend, But instantly your forehead lowers, As if her merit lessen'd yours?
  5. 'T is now the summer of your youth. Time has not cropt the roses from your cheek, though sorrow long has washed them.
  6. I am rich beyond the dreams of avarice.

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