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