Ye, beauty's pow'r who feel, excuse
The am'rous sallies of the muse:
Permit the bard to soothe his pain,
In mournful numbers to complain,
Or feast his fancy with the charms
Deny'd by fortune to his arms.
At beauty's mark in vain may wit
Aspire, for only wealth can hit,
And, deaf to merit's slow approaches
'Tis won by blockheads in their coaches.