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;