But then the Muse’s votary may
In rhymes like these his fair portray,—
My Phillis has a natural varnish
Which time nor accident can’t tarnish;
No sickly, pale, unripen’d maid,
“Dyed in the wool,” she cannot fade;
Essence of ebony and logwood,
And sweeter than the flowers of dogwood.
Lives there a bard who would not glory
In such epistles amatory,