1 The shape alone let others prize, The features of the fair; I look for spirit in her eyes, And meaning in her air;

2 A damask cheek, an ivory arm, Shall ne"er my wishes win: Give me an animated form, That speaks a mind within;

3 A face where awful honour shines, Where sense and sweetness move, And angel innocence refines The tenderness of love.

4 These are the soul of Beauty"s frame; Without whose vital aid, Unfinish"d all her features seem, And all her roses dead.

5 But, ah! where both their charms unite, How perfect is the view, With every image of delight, With graces ever new:

6 Of power to charm the greatest woe, The wildest rage control, Diffusing mildness o"er the brow, And rapture through the soul.

7 Their power but faintly to express, All language must despair; But go, behold Arpasia"s face, And read it perfect there.

END OF AKENSIDE"S POETICAL WORKS.

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