On a Fan

Now I've painted these flowers, say what can I do, To render them worthy acceptance from you? I know of no sybil, whose wonderful art Could to them superior virtues impart, Who, of magical influence wonders could tell, And, who over each blossom could mutter a spell.

You only the humbler enchantments can prove, That arise from esteem, from respect, and from love; With such I assail you, and pow'rful the charm, When applied to a heart sympathetic and warm; To a heart such as that, which, if right I divine, O C—ll—n—n! dwells in that bosom of thine.