to what serves mortal beauty

Me and the ghost of Thomas Hardy sitting in the Caffe Nero near Dublin's Stephen's Green.
We are contemplating the beautiful manageress.
"Ah Thomas she has more power than your dreams," quoth I.
"Go over and talk to her," sez he.
"What would I say?" quoth I.
"Tell her what's on your mind," sez he.
"Modern girls don't appreciate being told they're rides," I demur.