And can the social door, and Friendship's gate,
To thee oppose their brazen locks? O Heaven!
The  world thy angels have sorsook,
And here in deserts dwell — in human form,
But in celestial beauty! Tell me, Virgin!
— For sure the awe, with which thy eye inspires,
Bespeaks thy vestal state — tell me, fair Maid!
What ills, what sore affliction,  have driven
To seek, in these sequester'd shades, felicity
By man refus'd?