Thou hast not rais’d, Ianthe, such desire
In any breast as thou hast rais’d in mine.
No wandering meteor now, no marshy fire,
Leads on my steps, but lofty, but divine:
And, if thou dullest me, as chill thou dost
When I approach too near, too boldly gaze,
So chills the blushing mom, so chills the host
Of vernal stars, with light more chaste than day’s.