Believe me, Rose, howe'er this Con. may please,
With flowing Numbers, and an easy Phrase;
With Wit, with Humour, and with ev'ry Art,
That steals the Ear, and ravishes the Heart;
Howe'er his Verses are with Rapture read,
They ne'er could spring from his poor Baby Head.
No, no, dear Rose, his Tricks are too well known;
They are his Mother's Verses, not his own.
Presumptuous Youth! this dang'rous Art forbear;
Nor tempt a Character beyond thy Sphere.
Let meaner Flames thy tender Breast inspire;
Touch not a Beam of hers--'Tis sacred Fire!
Phoebus might trust thy Mother with his Sun;
But you, fond Boy, may prove a Phaeton.
