On Lyce - an Elderly Lady
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 Lyce 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,
Deny my Lyce shines;
And all the pen of Cupid’s wing
Attack my gentle lines.
Yet spite of fair Zelinda’s eye,
And all her bards express,
My Lyce makes as good a sky,
And I but flatter less.
