To Lyce, an Elderly Lady

  1 Ye Nymphs whom starry rays invest,
      By flattering poets given,
    Who shine, by lavish lovers dress'd,
      In all the pomp of Heaven.



  2 Engross not all the beams on high,
      Which gild a lover's lays,
    But, as your sister of the sky,
      Let Lyce share the praise.
  3 Her silver locks display the moon,
      Her brows a cloudy show,
    Striped rainbows round her eyes are seen,
      And showers from either flow.
  4 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,
  5 But some Zelinda, while I sing,
      Denies my Lyce shines;
    And all the pens of Cupid's wing
      Attack my gentle lines.
  6 Yet, spite of fair Zelinda's eye,
      And all her bards express,
    My Lyce makes as good a sky,
      And I but flatter less.