Oh! how that Negligence becomes your Air!
That careless Flowing of your Hair,
That plays about with wanton Grace,
With every Motion of your Face:
Disdaining all that dull Formality,
That dares not move the Lip, or Eye,
But at some fancy’d Grace’s cost;
And think, with it, at least, a Lover lost.
But the unlucky Minute to reclaim,
And ease the Coquet of her Pain,
The Pocket-Glass adjusts the Face again:
Re-sets the Mouth, and languishes the Eyes;
And thinks, the Spark that ogles that way—dies.
Of Iris learn, Oh ye mistaken Fair!
To dress your Face, your Smiles, your Air:
Let easy Nature all the Bus’ness do,
She can the softest Graces shew;
Which Art but turns to ridicule,
And where there’s none serves but to shew the Fool.
In Iris you all Graces find;
Charms without Art, a Motion unconfin’d;
Without Constraint, she smiles, she looks, she talks;
And without Affectation, moves and walks.
Beauties so perfect ne’er were seen:
O ye mistaken Fair! Dress ye by Iris’ Mein.
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