To Flora Poem by Henry Baker

False one! You have oft profess'd,
I alone could make you blest;
Wherefore then am I despis'd?
Wherefore is my Rival priz'd?
Why, he's rich, and makes a Shew,
A pert, fantastick, airy Beau:
I guilty am of Poverty,
A Crime your Sex will ne'er pass by.

His Estate lies wide around,
And may with little search be found;
Mine, out of Sight, above the Skies,
On Parnassus' Mountain lies.

He presents, to prove his Passion,
Ev'ry Toy that comes in Fashion,
And whatever Gold can buy,
To pleasure Pride and Vanity.
Verse, wherein my Love I sing,
Verse and Love is all I bring;
True, the Present is but small,
Yet, alas! it is my All.

This, is what makes me despis'd;
This, what makes my Rival priz'd.
Stupid Pride of Womankind!
To all, but Show and Folly, blind!
Simple Maid! can Riches prove
A greater Happiness than Love?
Will noisy Pomp and splendid Cloaths
Afford Content and true Repose?

Mistaken Fair! what I present,
Out--lasting Gold and Adamant,
Records You in the Rolls of Fame,
And gives an everlasting Name.

His Wealth, indeed, will make you Great,
And you may live, and die, in State;
But, accepting Love and Me,
You, Flora! shall immortal be.