Like Psyche, soothe the God of Love to rest;
Or if ambition move thee, Jove enthral,
Brandish his thunder, and direct its fall;
Survey thyself, contemplate ev’ry grace
Of that sweet form, of that angelic face;
Then, Clara, say, were those delicious charms
Meant for lewd brothels and rude ruffians’ arms?
No, Clara, no; that person and that mind
Were form’d by nature, and by Heav’n design’d
For nobler ends; to these return, though late;