bis works to her. But Mr. Thomas Rowe was the object of her choice. He was a man of uncommon parts and learning, author of eight Lives of the Ancients, in continuation of Plutarch, which were published, and afterwards translated into French.
They were married 1710, in her 36th year. The almost saint-like innocence of her life, the felicity of her natural disposition, and the superior sprightliness of her temper, which she always retained, seem to have prolonged the period, not only of her beauty, but youth, beyond their ordinary limits. The appearances of age had not time to steal upon a mind engaged only in the contemplation of sublime and noble subjects. This observation may seem misplaced; but Mr. Rowe was but twenty-three. Though not a regular beauty, she possessed a large measure of the charms of her sex. She was of a moderate stature, her hair a fine auburn, and her eyes of a darkish grey, inclining to blue, and full of fire. Her complexion was very fair, and a natural rosy blush glowed in her cheeks. She spoke gracefully, and her voice was exceedingly sweet and harmonious, perfectly suited to that gentle language which always flowed from her lips. But the softness and benevolence of her aspect is beyond all description: it inspired irresistible love, yet not without some mixture of that awe and veneration which distinguished sense and virtue, apparent in the countenance, are wont to create.
On the marriage of these two accomplished persons alike favourites of nature and fortune, a learned friend of Mr. Rowe's wrote a Latin epigram, which was translated:
