Enrapt, already THINK ITSELF IN HEAVEN,
And burst the feeble Body's frail control.
Elegy III.
The Poet Expatiates on the Beauty of Delia's Hair.
The comb between whose ivory teeth she strains
The straitening curls of gold so beamy bright,
Not spotless merely from the touch remains,
But issues forth more pure, more milky white.
The rose-pomatum that the FRISEUR spreads