Fair Rival to the God of Day, 
Beauty to thy Celestial Ray 
A thousand sprightly Fruits we owe:
Gay Wit, and moving Eloquence, 
And ev'ry Art to improve the Sense,
And ev'ry Grace that shines below.

Not Phoebus does our Songs inspire,
Nor did Cyllenius form the Lyre, 
'Tis thou art Musick's living Spring.
   Not Phoebus . . . Beauty, 'tis thou . . .

To thee the Poet tunes his Lays, 
And sweetly warbling Beauty's praise, 
Describes the Pow'r that makes him Sing.
   To thee the Poet . . .

Not Phoebus does our Songs inspire
   Not Phoebus . . . Beauty, 'tis thou . . .

Painters from thee their Skill derive;
By thee their works to Ages live, 
For e'en thy Shadows give Surprise.
As when we View in chrystal Streams
The morning Sun and rising Beams,
That seem to Shoot from other Skies.
Enchanting Vision, who can be
Unmov'd that turns his Eyes on thee?
   Enchanting Vision . . . 

Yet brighter still thy Glories shine,
And double Charms thy Pow'r improve,
When Beauty drest in Smiles of Love,
Grows like its Parent, Heav'n, divine.
   Yet brighter still thy Glories shine . . .

Enchanting Vision, who can be 
Unmov'd that turns his Eyes on thee?