1   Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire,      With bright, but mild affection shine:   Though they might kindle less desire,      Love, more than mortal, would be thine. 2   For thou art form’d so heavenly fair,      Howe’er those orbs may wildly beam,   We must admire, but still despair;      That fatal glance forbids esteem. 3   When Nature stamp’d thy beauteous birth,      So much perfection in thee shone,   She fear’d that, too divine for earth,      The skies might claim thee for their own. 4   Therefore, to guard her dearest work,      Lest angels might dispute the prize,   She bade a secret lightning lurk,      Within those once celestial eyes. 5   These might the boldest Sylph appall,      When gleaming with meridian blaze;   Thy beauty must enrapture all;      But who can dare thine ardent gaze? 6   ’Tis said that Berenice’s hair,      In stars adorns the vault of heaven;   But they would ne’er permit thee there,      Who wouldst so far outshine the seven. 7   For did those eyes as planets roll,      Thy sister-lights would scarce appear:   E’en suns, which systems now control,      Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.