The Poet sings her Buckled Shoe—
I much prefer her eyes of blue!

The Poet sings the Cup she sips—
I much prefer her smiling lips!

The Poet sings her Girdle chaste—
I much prefer her lissome waist!

The Poet sings her Locks aglow—
I much prefer the face below!

The Poet glorifies her Glove—
I much prefer the hand of Love!

The Poet hymns her waving Fan—
The cheek behind it suits my plan!

The Poet sings her frills of Lace—
I much prefer their resting place!

So, Poet, take the Fan, the Shoe,
The Laces, and the Girdle too.

Take thou the Gloves, the sweetened Cup—
I give them freely wholly up.

I'll never seek such flimsy pelf
When I can have the Maid herself!