Nor e’en that gentle smile, the heart’s delight,
With which no smile could e’er compare:
’Tis not that chin so round, that neck so fine,
Those breasts that swell to meet my love,
That easy sloping waist, that form divine,
Nor ought below, nor ought above:
’Tis not the living colours over each
By nature’s finest pencil wrought,
To shame the full-blown rose, and blooming peach,
And mock the happy painter’s thought: