(1817) 18171817 I’ve gaz’d on many a beauteous scene, In distant climes, where sunny skies Smile on the vales of living green,And torrents roll, and mountains rise: But not in lands more warm and bright,’ Mid valleys rich, & heights sublime, Does the eye rest with deep delight On mingling beauties such as thine. Whether, when morning’s golden ray, Clothes thee in splendour, life, & light, Or on thy gushing fountains play The cold moonbeam, or sweet twilight; Or bosom of thy g

What F What find I here? Fair Portia's counterfeit! What demigod Hath come so near creation? Move these eyes? Or whether, riding on the balls of mine, Seem they in motion? here are severed lips, Parted with sugar breath; so sweet a bar Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs The painter plays the spider, and hath woven A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men Faster than gnats in cobwebs. But her eyes! How could he see to do them? Having made one, Methinks it sho