The Wit and the Beau

STREPHON, whose person ev’ry grace

Was careful to adorn;

Thought, by the beauties of his face,

In Silvia’s love to find a place,

And wonder’d at her scorn.

With bows, and smiles he did his part;

But Oh! ’twas all in vain:

A youth less fine, a youth of Art,

Had talk’d himself into her heart

And wou’d not out again.

Strephon with change of habits press’d,

And urg’d her to admire;

His love alone the other dress’d,

As verse or prose became it best,

And mov’d her soft desire.

This found, his courtship Strephon ends,

Or makes it to his glass;

There in himself now seeks amends,

Convinc’d, that where a Wit pretends,

A Beau is but an ass.