Ah! smoother than that, on my soul,
And turn’d, as a body may say,
Like a delicate neat wooden-bowl.
To what shall I liken her hair,
As straight as a carpenter’s line,
For similes sure must be rare,
When we speak of a nymph so divine.
Not the head of Nazarite seer,
That never was shaven or shorn,
Nought equals the locks of my dear