Classic Poem

Dear Madam, your verses, submissive I read,
And own I have nothing in answer to plead:
Your satire's so keen, yet the muse so polite,
It carries conviction that's mix'd with delight;
So delicate still its attacks on each failing,
Where its edge is most felt, is its brightness prevailing.
It is not thro' pity, indeed, to the Beaux,
That I put on the cap you so freely expose;
Such pity, I fear, has been seldom exerted,
Since beaux were deceivers, and caps were perverted.
Nor is it I'm blind—I must frankly avow—
That were a misfortune most terrible now;
With your verses and reasons so well I agree,
In spite of my winkers, 'tis plain I can see!

After all, my dear Madam, the truth not to smother—
Confession's one thing, and amendment another!
And how can I throw by that cap with disdain,
Which now, I'm convinc'd, was not put on in vain?
Nay, cou'd I reform, I am now in despair—
The cap were remember'd, in spite of my care;
You've made it remember'd, by liking it not,
And I know but too well 'twill be never forgot!