To Lyce, An Elderly Lady
by
Ye nymphs, whom starry rays invest,
By flatt’ring poets given;
Who shine, by lavish lovers drest,
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,
Strip’d rainbows round her eyes are seen,
And show’rs from either flow.
Her teeth the night with darkness dies,
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 Lyce 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 Lyce makes as good a sky,
And I but flatter less.