You say 'tis plain that poets feign,
And from the truth depart;
They write with ease what fibs they please,
With artifice, not art;
Dearer to you the simply true—
The fact without the fancy—
Than this false play of colours gay,
So very vague and chancy.
No doubt 'tis well the truth to tell
In scientific coteries;
But I'll be bold to say she's cold,
Excepting to her votaries.
The false disguise of tawdry lies
May hide sweet Nature's face;
But in her form the blood runs warm,
As in the human race;
And in the rose the dew-drop glows,
And, o'er the seas serene,
The sunshine white still breaks in light
Of yellow, blue, and green.
In thousand rays the fancy plays;
The feelings rise and bubble;
The mind receives, the heart believes,
And makes each pleasure double.
Then spare to draw without a flaw,
Nor all too perfect make her,
Lest Nature wear the dull, cold air
Of some demurest Quaker—
Whose mien austere is void of cheer,
Or sense of sins forgiven,
And her sweet face has lost all grace
Of either earth or heaven.