Soft moving words, nor charming flattery.Thus I o'erheard her to my Lucia speak:"Young Damon's heart wilt thou for ever breakHe long has lov'd thee, and by me he sendsTo learn thy motions, which he still attends;If to the park thou go'st, the plays are ill;If to the plays, he thinks the air would kill.The other day he gaz'd upon thy face,As he would grow a statue in the place;And who indeed does not? like a new star,Beauty like thine strikes wonder from afar.Alas! methinks thou art ill-dress'd to-night;This point's too poor; thy necklace is not right;This gown was by some botching tailor made,It spoils thy shape; this fucus is ill laid.