To 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 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.