Classic Poem

Chloe, you talk, with joy, of Celia 's face,
Admire her wit, and ape her fancy'd grace;
The praise, you give is, sure! sincere respect,
Your practice proves, what airs your thoughts affect.
But, since you know, that friendship should be free,
Give her this hint, and say — it came from me.
A face, like hers, if manag'd well, might please,
But no charm strikes, that is not arm'd with ease,
Striving too eagerly, she strives, in vain:
These studied airs put beauty to the strain:
Wou'd she wound sure, and conquer, with a grace,
Tell her, the careless runner wins the race.