Classic Poem

She is not fair, you critics of the town
That court her smiles and tremble at her frown,
She is not fair, and though I burn like you,
I to my better judgment will be true;
Nor could a painter borrow from her face
One line that might his fancied Venus grace;
No feature that might countenance the rest
Is perfect or superlative confest;
Whence then without a charm that we can tell
Does all that's charming in Valeria dwell?
What is the agreeable with which she kills,
And wanting all, all Beauty's part fulfils?
That whensoe'er she speaks, or looks, or moves,
The observer listens, sighs, admires, and loves,
And wonders at the unexpected smart,
Who sees no quiver though he feels the dart?
What is this power which we can ne'er descry,
That nicely shuns not an ill-coloured eye
Nor does from disproportion fly?
What is this charm but something from the soul
Which warms us whilst it shines, and influences the whole;
That mocks description, which can ne'er advance
Their all-subduing mind dressed à la negligence.