To .... ....

Never mind how the pedagogue proses,
    You want not antiquity's stamp;
A lip, that such fragrance discloses,
    Oh! never should smell of the lamp.

Old Cloe, whose withering kiss
    Hath long set the Loves at defiance,
Now, done with the science of bliss,
    May take to the blisses of science.

But for you to be buried in books--
    Ah, Fanny, they're pitiful sages,
Who could not in one of your looks
    Read more than in millions of pages.

Astronomy finds in those eyes
    Better light than she studies above;
And Music would borrow your sighs
    As the melody fittest for Love.

Your Arithmetic only can trip
    If to count your own charms you endeavor;
And Eloquence glows on your lip
    When you swear that you'll love me for ever.

Thus you see, what a brilliant alliance
    Of arts is assembled in you;--
A course of more exquisite science
    Man never need wish to pursue.

And, oh!--if a Fellow like me
    May confer a diploma of hearts,
With my lip thus I seal your degree,
    My divine little Mistress of Arts!