Of sacred wreaths that circled it before;
Where mine quite lost (like a small stream that ran
Into a vast, and boundless ocean)
Was swallow’d up with what it join’d, and drown’d,
And that abyss yet no accession found.
Orinda (Albion’s and her sex’s grace)
Ow’d not her glory to a beauteous face;
It was her radiant soul that shone within,
Which struck a lustre thro’ her outward skin;
That did her lips and cheeks with roses dye,