What laurels lie in polished flattery

Exceeding proper bounds of human praise,

When eyes so called upon must surely see

Incongruities to the casual gaze?

If so, then all the puffery I say

Though born of truth, might still be judged pure lies;

And should sound judgement enter into play,

What words there said might ever truth disguise?

Of matchless beauty, let me understate

And of rare grace, in passing might I tell;

Through intimation, minds exaggerate—

And mute acclaim lets inward fancy swell.

To sound your peerless worth, I’ll show restraint:

In honest praise one finds the brighter paint.