Ballad—in the Waterman

In vain, dear friends, each art you try; To neither lover's suit inclin'd, On outward charms I'll ne'er rely, But prize the graces of the mind. The empty coxcomb, which you chose, Just like the flower of a day, Shook by each wind that folly blows, Seems born to flutter and decay. Your choice an honest aspect wears; To give him pain I oft have griev'd; But it proceeded from my fears; Than me much wiser are deceived: I thank you both, then, for your love, Wait for my choice a little while; And he who most shall worthy prove, My hand I'll offer with a smile.