Sing the soft lustre of thine eye,
Sing thy sweet lips of rosy dye,
Nay, still those guilty teeth ’twould sing,
Whence all its cruel mischiefs spring:
E’en now it lisps in faltering lays,
While yet it bleeds, Neæra’s praise:
Thus, beauteous tyrant! you control,
Thus sway my fond, enamored soul!
