Be The Mistress Of My Choice, Clean In Manners, Clear In Voice; Be She Witty, More Than Wise, Pure Enough, Though Not Precise; Be She Showing In Her Dress, Like A Civil Wilderness, That The Curious May Detect Order In A Sweet Neglect; Be She Rolling In Her Eye, Tempting All The Passers By; And Each Ringlet Of Her Hair, An Enchantment, Or A Snare, For To Catch The Lookers On; But Herself Held Fast By None. Let Her Lucrece All Day Be, Thais In The Night, To Me. Be She Such, As Neither Will Famish Me, Nor Overfill.