John Oldmixon (1673–1742)

THOSE arts which common beauties move,

Corinna, you despise:

You think there’s nothing wise in love

Or eloquent in sighs.

You laugh at ogle, cant, and song,

And promises abuse:

But say—for I have courted long—

What methods shall I use?

We must not praise your charms and wit,

Nor talk of dart and flame;

But sometimes you can think it fit

To smile at what you blame.

Your sex’s forms, which you disown,

Alas! you can’t forbear;

But in a minute smile and frown,

Are tender and severe.

Corinna, let us now be free;

No more your arts pursue,

Unless you suffer me to be

As whimsical as you.

At last the vain dispute desist,

To love resign the field:

’Twas custom forced you to resist,

And custom bids you yield.