As Nancy at her toilet sat, Admiring this and blaming that; 'Tell me,' she said; 'but tell me true; The nymph who could your heart subdue. What sort of charms does she possess?' 'Absolve me, fair one: I'll confess With pleasure,' I replied. 'Her hair, In ringlets rather dark than fair, Does down her ivory bosom roll, And, hiding half, adorns the whole. In her high forehead's fair half-round Love sits in open triumph crowned: He in the dimple of her chin, In private state, by friends is seen. Her eyes are neither black nor grey; Nor fierce nor feeble is their ray; Their dubious lustre seems to show Something that speaks nor Yes, nor No. Her lips no living bard, I weet, May say, how red, how round, how sweet: Old Homer only could indite Their vagrant grace and soft delight: They stand recorded in his book, When Helen smiled, and Hebe spoke'-- The gipsy, turning to her glass, Too plainly showed she knew the face: 'And which am I most like,' she said, 'Your Chloe, or your nut-brown maid?' |