TO LYCE,

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.