Nor dark nor blonde is she whom I adore:
By a single stroke to sketch her,
She's the most delightful creature
The wide world o'er.
Yet of her charms 't is easy count to take:
Five hundred beauties that are seen,
Five hundred more concealed, I ween,
A thousand make.
Wisdom divine is in her mind exprest;
By thousand sweetest traits 't is told
The graces in their finest mould
Have formed the rest.
What lustrous tints could paint her hue so bright?
Flora is not so fresh and fair;
And with a swan's may well compare
Her neck so white.
Her waist and arm do kin to Venus prove;
Like Hebe's are her mouth and nose;
And, for her eyes—Ah! your glance shows
Whom 't is I love.