Ye Nymphs whom starry rays invest,
By flattering poets given,
Who shine, by lavish lovers dress'd,
In all the pomp of Heaven.
Engross not all the beams on high,
Which gild a lover's lays,
But, as your sister of the sky,
Let Lycè share the praise.
Her silver locks display the moon,
Her brows a cloudy show,
Striped rainbows round her eyes are seen,
And showers from either flow.
Her teeth the night with darkness dyes;
She's starr'd with pimples o'er;
Her tongue like nimble lightning plies,
And can with thunder roar,
But some Zelinda, while I sing,
Denies my Lycè shines;
And all the pens of Cupid's wing
Attack my gentle lines.
Yet, spite of fair Zelinda's eye,
And all her bards express,
My Lycè makes as good a sky,
And I but flatter less.