Part of Lyric Harmony
'Tis not the Liquid brightness of those Eyes,
That swim with Pleasure and delight
Nor those fair Heavn'ly Arches which arise
o'er each of them to shade their Light.
'Tis not that Hair which plays with ev'ry wind,
and loves to wanton round thy face.
Now straying o'er thy Forehead now behind
retiring, retiring with insidious Grace,
retiring with insidious Grace.
'Tis not that lovely range of Teeth as white
As new shorn Sheep equal and fair;
Nor even that gentle smile the herts delight,
With which no smile cou'd e're compare:
'Tis not that Chin so round, that Neck so fine,
Those Breast's that swell to meet my Love,
That easy sloping waste, that form divine,
Nor ought, nor ought below nor ought above,
Nor ought below nor ought above.
'Tis not the living Colours over each,
By natures 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 & move,
That thus, that thus have set my soul on Fire,
That thus have set my Soul on Fire.