With bright， but mild affection shine：
Though they might kindle1 less desire，
Love， more than mortal， would be thine.
For thou art form'd so heavenly fair，
Howe'er those orbs2 may wildly beam，
We must admire， but still despair；
That fatal glance forbids esteem3.
When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth，
So much perfection in thee shone，
She fear'd that， too pine for earth，
The skies might claim thee for their own.
Therefore， to guard her dearest work，
Lest angels might dispute the prize，
She bade a secret lightning lurk4，
Within those once celestial5 eyes.
These might the boldest Sylph appall6，
When gleaming with meridian7 blaze；
Thy beauty must enrapture8 all；
But who can dare thine ardent9 gaze？
'Tis said that Berenice's hair，
In stars adorns10 the vault11 of heaven；
But they would ne'er permit thee there，
Who wouldst so far outshine the seven.
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.