Air of Wit, no beauteous Grace I boast;
My Charms are native Innocence at most.
Alike thy Pencil, and thy Numbers charm,
Glad ev'ry Eye, and ev'ry Bosom warm.
Mature in Years, if e'er I chance to tread,
Where , triumphant, rears aloft her Head,
Ev'n there the Paths of  I'll pursue,
And own my fair and kind Director You.