Let the fair Nymph, in whose plump cheeks is seen
A constant blush, be clad in chearful green;
In such a dress the sportive sea-nymphs go;
So in their grassy bed fresh roses blow:
The lass whose skin is like the hazel brown,
With brighter yellow should o'ercome her own:
While maids grown pale with sickness or despair,
The sable's mournful dye should choose to wear;
So the pale moon still shines with purest light,
Cloath'd in the dusky mantle of the night.