With balm imbued they might be wooed,
But ah! coy prude, she will not let us.
No jewels deck her radiant neck—
What pearl could reck its hue to rival?
A pin of gold—the fashion old—
A ribbon-fold, or some such trifle;
And—beauty chief! the lily’s leaf
In dark relief sets off the whiteness
Of all the breast not veiled and pressed
Beneath her collar’s Quaker tightness.