In all the blushing lakes, and laugh’d;[[39]]
With sweetest grace the pencil flow’d,
With softest tints the canvass glow’d;
“I’ll draw Mamma,” the Wanton cries,
And Talbot’s features charm our eyes!
With airy ease the white neck bends,
Lock after lock the hair descends:
O’er the fair form the Graces spread
Their vest, and Hymen wreaths the head.
And then Thalia, muse of woe,