To a Lady, presenting her a Box of Patches

Go, envy'd present, and those Charms improve,
Those killing Charms, which I am doom'd to Love.
Ill thus I lavish Sacred Beauty's store,
To Arm the foe, that vanquish'd me before;
Why should I wing those Shafts, by which I bleed?
And paint the Poyson, when 'tis Death to feed?
Tho' thy least patch shall brighter glories hide,
Than shine in any other Face descry'd;
Such are thy wond'rous Charms, Victorious Maid!
The more I hide them, they are more display'd.
So, the Sun's rays, shine, when allay'd with Clouds;
That shows them fairer, which their glory shrowds.
Thus, dying Stars Deck gay the Spangled Morn,
And with mild Light, the infant dawn adorn.
To Diamonds, thus, their foil does Lustre give,
And thus, the shade makes the fair Picture live.
While thy dear Face these Cluster'd Patches wears,
Thy Charming Face Loves Galaxy appears.
Soft does that Skin, without those Patches, show,
Soft, as the softest Silk, which makes them so.
Thus deckt, tho' Charms, almost Divine, you boast,
Yet wert thou naked, thou would'st ravish most.
Art thus, with Nature is conspiring found;
You wear the Patch, but 'tis I feel the Wound.