Edward Moore (1712 – 1757)
English dramatist and miscellaneous writer, the son of a dissenting minister, born at Abingdon, Berkshire.
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Beauty has wings, and too hastily flies,
And love, unrewarded, soon sickens and dies.
’T is now the summer of your youth. Time has not cropt the roses from your cheek, though sorrow long has washed them.
The maid who modestly conceals
Her beauties, while she hides, reveals;
Give but a glimpse, and fancy draws
Whate’er the Grecian Venus was.
But from the hoop’s bewitching round,
Her very shoe has power to wound.
I am rich beyond the dreams of avarice.
Can’t I another’s face commend,
And to her virtues be a friend,
But instantly your forehead lowers,
As if her merit lessen’d yours?
Time still, as he flies, brings increase to her truth,
And gives to her mind what he steals from her youth.
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