Hard as it was, beginning to relent,
It seem’d, the breast beneath his fingers bent;
He felt again, his fingers made a print,
’Twas flesh, but flesh so firm, it rose against the dint:
The pleasing task he fails not to renew;
Soft, and more soft at ev’ry touch it grew;
Like pliant wax, when chafing hands reduce
The former mass to form, and frame for use
He would believe, but yet is still in pain,
And tries his argument of sense again,