To the Bookseller desiring my Sculpture before my Book

Take it, the Wretched, lifeless Figure take;
'Tis only giv'n for my Amasia's sake.
With Charms, too bright to be repell'd, you move,
Yet, not thro' vanity I yield, but Love.
Amasia's Name does my Book's Title Crown,
Amasia's Name, which gives my Book Renown.
Hence 'tis I grant, with pleasure, your demand;
Shall I not, Join'd with my Amasia, stand?
Let, with a scoff, the World my form disdain,
The Cens'ring World, unknowing Lovers pain;
On this account, I'm proud of being vain.
My self I gave to the bright Maid before;
How in a Picture can I give her more?
Let the World talk, and rail, and rave aloud;
I never yet for sordid praise have Bow'd;
I'll call Fools envious, while they call me proud.