Where wanton Cupid lies:
The rose, compar’d to her, shall fade,
The lily lose its white:
E’en Sol himself must own the maid,
And shine with beams less bright.
V.
Thee, lovely Cynthia[20], next we sing,
Charm’d with thy beauteous face,
More blooming than the verdent spring,
Adorn’d with ev’ry grace;