To Rose

Another may despise my verse
And cry, What poet could write worse,
With Loves in legions at his beck
And looking at them from her neck,
I see them quite as well as they,
And haply what I see might say,
But I have always known that you
Far beyond all things prize the true.
And that you raise your eyes above
And list to Virtue more than Love,
Tho' amicably both contend
To take precedence as your friend.