Your bards that wrote in heathen days,
Had such a theme employ'd their lays,
Had tortur'd their inventive brain,
With dire portents to fill the strain;
Had bid the neighb'ring river mourn
His alter'd stream and tainted urn;
Or made the Naiads lift their heads,
Astonish'd from their wat'ry beds,
And, seated on the river's side,
Squeeze from their locks the briny tide.
But little skill'd in Pagan lore;
I pass such idle fancies o'er:
Truth is my care, whose lovely face
Shines brightest in the plainest dress.