Yet from what god does your sweet mien arise?

Those eyes, those lips, that smile that dares compare;

By bold design, a peerless aspect prized

That makes proud sirens languish in despair.

Dim parlor light hails beauty much the same,

Yet morning sun lays bare what masks disguise.

While maquillage is more or less a game,

For paint and powder, beauty’s truth decries.

Here unadorned at break of day you shine,

Bright still in unadulterated light

Though visages by brush, fair rouge refined,

Still seldom match what deities bedight.

You are so blessed, and I the more to see—

True beauty’s best undressed…so let it be.