More blacker than jet the fine ringlets seem glowing
Nay they rival the Micaelmas sloe.
Her face cloth'd in blushes like the east in a morning
Sheds a lustre so healthful and gay
And O! her sweet neck is with Cupids adorning
More whiter than blossoms of May.
Whould make e'en a Hermit to long
And O! of her eyes and her lips theres no telling
They'r out o' the reach of my song.
Her height with the rest in exactest propotion
Nought defective throughout can be seen
And her fine limbs conceal'd will oft show their sweet motion
When met by the wind on the green.
Tho her form is so charmingly fine tall and slender
It does not outrival her mind,
She's equaly Modest Obliging and Tender
That she seems for an angel designd.
She also is Witty and quick in descerning,
Nor a stranger to
She's an able proficient in all sorts of Learning,
To Draw or to Write or to Sing.
O! Cupid since thou with thy Bow fast pursuing
Made an Arrow flie twang thro my heart
Give me but this Maid I'll ne'er mourn the subduing,
But bless the good aim of thy dart.
(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1989)