"Your word's obey'd; nay, e'en your look Who can withstand?-Receive the book Pale as the morn ere ting'd with red, But empty, as you know whose head To sounding fame has no pretence, Spotless as virgin innocence. Must it be fill'd with dying strains? The sighs of nymphs, the vows of swains? With scandal, dress, or China ware, Chief objects of a lady's care?"