Beyond description, fairer than her sex,
To me, Dorinda seems: how darts her eye
Its soul-dissolving fires! how, o'er neck,
Gracefully careless, falls her auburn hair!
Her mien how soft! Can the pure mountain snow,
With her warm bosom, rising to the throbs
Of undissembled love, compare its white?
The rose its red with hers? Nor Strephon less
Adores his blooming bride; she fairer, she
Is Beauty's self, and as she gently moves
Her limbs, proportion'd with unerring skill,
A thousand radiant graces in her train
Alluring dance. Each nameless charm is hers;
And Love, and Joy, and Virtue, sit enthron'd
In every look and smile. Not varied more
The human face, with different features stampt
By Nature's forming hand, than Taste which views,
In objects different, various beauties glow.