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Heard of a matter within me prowls?
Such jolly maid with celestial phiz
Twain-fair as Elysium’s walls
Of dearly beauty thrice natural blest
That soothe all eye-ills ‘pon gazing;
Its heavenly miracle, stranded thus in
Mortal pound, oh mercy! What mercy!
If not I sight hence in mortal
Blood and flesh, by heavens this need
Must have versed as a god by which
Earthly shapes may round for grace
Withal print of goodness that cuffs
Not a pinch of blemish, which all
Still, will behold with delicate affection