Each lovely maid, of Greece the toast,
Such as our British isle can boast,
In all their native beauty gay,
As Hebé young, and sweet as May,
Before him sate: from one he chose
The eye which Love half seem'd to close;
This lent a face divinely fair,
A mild, and yet majestic air;
That gave what art in vain would seek,
The spirits mantling in the cheek,
And lips that softness seem'd to speak.
Thus, from their various charms combin'd,
One perfect Whole imprest his mind;
But had Apelles painted now,
He might, my Dear, have copied you,
And, as in truth, I think, was done,
He would have from the picture run,
And left the Venus but begun,
To sacrifice the pride of art
To the bright Goddess of his heart,
And given up an immortal claim,
For beauty's prize, the prize of fame.