The fair Isabel of Cotehele a Cornish romance, in six cantos. By the author of Local attachment, and translator of Theocritus [i.e. Richard Polwhele] |
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The fair Isabel of Cotehele | ||
XXXII.
She said. And tho' her quivering lipFrom Circe's cup had ceas'd to sip;
Yet luscious fancies linger'd still,
Where she had never quaff'd her fill.
And, tho' her hoar locks might you mark
Like mildew, or the grizzled moss
On some old sallow's canker'd bark;
Yet did she seem with quaint address
Fond to display her favourite tress
Still sleek in all its summer gloss!
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In langours soft to pleasure's glance,
And palsy every sapless limb
(Sure harbinger of death) did shake;
Yet would she melt in sensual trance,
And, (weaving the libidinous tale
That show'd at heart the rake)
Against voluptuous beauty rail!
The fair Isabel of Cotehele | ||