All the passions incident to the human frame
have here assumed as true a scope, as in the more noisy and more tragical
contentions of statesmen and warriors. Here nature has displayed her most
hidden attractions, and art has furnished out the artillery of beauty.
Here the coquet has surprised, and the love-sick nymph has sapped the
heart of the unwary swain. The scene has been equally sought by the bolder
and more haughty, as by the timid sex. Here the foxhunter has sought a new
subject of his boast in the _nonchalance_ of _dishabille_; the
peer has played off the dazzling charms of a coronet and a star; and the
_petit maitre_ has employed the anxious niceties of dress.
Of all the beauties in this brilliant circle, she, who was incomparably
the most celebrated, was the graceful Delia. Her person, though not
absolutely tall, had an air of dignity. Her form was bewitching, and her
neck was alabaster. Her cheeks glowed with the lovely vermilion of nature,
her mouth was small and pouting, her lips were coral, and her teeth whiter
than the driven snow. Her forehead was bold, high, and polished, her
eyebrows were arched, and from beneath them her fine blue eyes shone with
intelligence, and sparkled with heedless gaiety. Her hair was of the
brightest auburn, it was in the greatest abundance, and when, unfettered
by the ligaments of fashion, it flowed about her shoulders and her lovely
neck, it presented the most ravishing object that can possibly be
imagined.
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