The Moon—who does not love the silver moon,
In all her fantasies and all her phases?
Whether full-orb’d in the nocturnal noon,
Shining in all the dewdrops on the daisies,
To light the tripping Fairies in their mazes,
Whilst stars are winking at the pranks of Puck;
Or huge and red, as on brown sheaves she gazes;
Or new and thin, when coin is turn’d for luck;
Who will not say that Dian is a Duck?
But, oh! how tender, beautiful and sweet,