’Tis not the liquid brightness of those eyes,
That swim with pleasure and delight,
Nor those heavenly arches which arise
O’er each of them to shade their light:
’Tis not that hair which plays with every wind,
And loves to wanton round thy face;
Now straying round the forehead, now behind
Retiring with insidious grace:
’Tis not that lovely range of teeth so white,
As new-shorn sheep equal and fair;