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Poem by William Cowper
William was once a bashful youth; His modesty was such, That one might say (to say the truth) He rather had too much. Some said that it was want of sense, And others want of spirit, (So blest a thing is impudence), While others could not bear it. But some a different notion had, And at each other winking, Observed, that though he little said, He paid it off with thinking. Howe'er, it happened, by degrees, He mended and grew perter; In company was more at ease, And dressed a little smarter; Nay, now and then would look quite gay, As other people do; And sometimes said, or tried to say, A witty thing or so. He eyed the women, and made free To comment on their shapes; So that there was, or seemed to be, No fear of a relapse. The women said, who thought him rough, But now no longer foolish, 'The creature may do well enough, But wants a deal of polish.' At length, improved from head to heel, 'Twere scarce too much to say, No dancing bear was so genteel, Or half so dégagé. Now that a miracle so strange May not in vain be shown, Let the dear maid who wrought the change E'er claim him for her own.
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