SONG XXVII. The PHOENIX. A new Song

A MANDA's fair by all confess'd, Her Skin soft snow—y white; As Down that clothes the Turtles Breast. Her Eyes like Diamonds bright, Yet farther still the Nymph ex—cells, In each celestial Grace, That 'midst the Heart's soft Lab'—rinth dwells, or in the Soul takes Place.

How much superior Beauty was, The coldest Bosom's find; But with resistless Force it draws, to Sense and Virtue join'd. The Casket where to outward show, The Artest's Hand is seen, Is doubly valu'd, when we know, It holds a Gem within.