All praise (to speak her worth) is faint;
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Her manners show'd the yielding dove,
Her morals, the seraphic saint;
She never breathed nor look'd complaint;
No equal upon earth had she:—
Now, what is this fair thing I paint?
Alas! as all that live shall be.
There was, beside, a gallant youth,
And him my bosom's friend I had:—