Or as on Alpine cliffs, a wounded doe
Sheds all its purple life upon the snow;
So the maid blushes, while her humble eyes
Fear from a knot of primroses to rise;
And mute she sits, affecting to repair
The discomposed meanders of her hair.
Need I his arts unfold? The accomplish'd guile
That glosses poisonous words with gilded smile?
The tear suborned, the tongue complete to please;
Eyes ecstasied, idolatry of knees?