'Sweet in manners, fair in favour,
Mild in temper, fierce in fight,
Warrior, nobler, gentler, braver,
Never shall behold the light!

'Cousin, Lo! my tears bedew thee!
How shall I thy loss survive!
Durandarte, He who slew thee,
Wherefore left He me alive!'

While She sung, Ambrosio listened with delight: Never had He
heard a voice more harmonious; and He wondered how such heavenly
sounds could be produced by any but Angels. But though He
indulged the sense of hearing, a single look convinced him that
He must not trust to that of sight. The Songstress sat at a
little distance from his Bed. The attitude in which She bent
over her harp, was easy and graceful: Her Cowl had fallen back-
warder than usual: Two coral lips were visible, ripe, fresh, and
melting, and a Chin in whose dimples seemed to lurk a thousand
Cupids. Her Habit's long sleeve would have swept along the
Chords of the Instrument: To prevent this inconvenience She had
drawn it above her elbow, and by this means an arm was discovered
formed in the most perfect symmetry, the delicacy of whose skin
might have contended with snow in whiteness. Ambrosio dared to
look on her but once: That glance sufficed to convince him, how
dangerous was the presence of this seducing Object. He closed
his eyes, but strove in vain to banish her from his thoughts.
There She still moved before him, adorned with all those charms
which his heated imagination could supply: Every beauty which He
had seen, appeared embellished, and those still concealed Fancy