With Nature’s best, completest art,
Her breast is with the virtues drest,
And dignity exalts her heart.
If gods cou’d once more live again,
And eye the Clara of our day,
Their very souls would burst with pain,
And sigh alas! for death’s decay.
Ye virtuous youth who search for worth,
And look with hate on idle mirth,
Direct your steps where Clara lives,