Томас Лав Пикок (Thomas Love Peacock)

To a Young Lady, Netting

While those bewitching hands combine,
With matchless grace, the silken line,
They also weave, with gentle art,
Those stronger nets that bind the heart.
 
But soon all earthly things decay:
That net in time must wear away:
E’en Beauty’s silken meshes gay
        No lasting hold can take:
 
But Beauty, Virtue, Sense, combin’d,
(And all these charms in thee are join’d)
Can throw that net upon the mind,
No human art can e’er unbind,
        No human pow’r can break.

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