To Thee, Dear Swift, these spotless Leaves I send;

Small is the Present, but sincere the Friend:

Think not so poor a Book below thy Care:

Who knows the Price that thou canst make it bear?

Tho’ tawdry now, and like Tyrilla’s Face,

The specious front shines out with borrow’d grace

Tho' Past-boards glittering, like a tinsel’d Coat,

A Rasa Tabula within denote;

Yet, if a venal and corrupted Age,

And modern Vices, should provoke thy Rage;

If, warn’d once more by their impending Fate,

A sinking Country, and an injur’d State,

Thy great Assistance should again demand,

And call forth Reason to defend the Land;

Then shall we view these Sheets, with glad Surprize,

Inspir’d with Thought, and speaking to our Eyes:

Each vacant Space shall then, enrich’d dispense

True Force of Eloquence, and nervous Sense;

Inform the Judgment, animate the Heart,

And sacred Rules of Policy impart:

The spangled Covering, bright with splendid Ore,

Shall cheat the Sight with empty Shew no more;

But lead us inward to those Golden Mines,

Where all thy Soul in native Lustre shines.

 

So when the Eye surveys some lovely Fair,

With Bloom of Beauty grac’d, with Shape and Air;

How is the Rapture heighten’d when we find

Her Form excell’d by her celestial Mind?