'Tis not the liquid brightness of those…

'Tis not the liquid brightness of those eyes, That swim with pleasure and delight; Nor those fair heavenly arches which arise O'er each of them to shade their light; 'Tis not that hair which plays with every wind, And loves to wanton round thy face; Now straying o'er thy forehead, now behind Retiring with insidious grace.

'Tis not that lovely range of teeth, as white As new shorne sheep, equal and fair; Nor even that gentle smile, the heart's delight, With which no fraile could e'er compare; 'Tis not that chin so round, that neck so fine, Those breasts that swell to meet my love; That easy sloping waist, that form divine, Nor ought below, nor ought above.

'Tis not the living colours over each, By nature's finest pencil wrought, To shame the fresh blown rose, and blooming peach, And mock the happiest painters thought: But 'tis that gentle mind, that ardent love, So kindly answering my desire; That grace with which you look, and speak, and move, That thus have set my soul on fire.