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103 
She’s noble—noble, one to keep 
Embalmed for dreams of fevered sleep. 
An eye for nature—taste refined, 
Perception swift—and balanced mind,— 
And, more than all, a gift of thought 
To such a spirit fineness wrought, 
That on my ear her language fell 
As if each word dissolved a spell. 
Willis. 
Oh! do not die, for we shall hate 
All women so when you are gone, 
'That thee I shall not celebrate, 
When I remember thou wast one. 
But yet thou canst not die, I know; 
To leave this world behind is death; 
But when thou from this world wilt go, 
The whole world vapours in thy v breath. 
Donne. 
Were I to give my frolic fancy play, 
I’d sing of her as some angelic sprite, 
Who, wandering from her native home of light, 
Fatigued, had fallen asleep upon the way;— 
I’d fear to wake her, lest she’d plume her wings 
And soar away from me and all sublunar things. 
MacKellar. 
