Come, Muse, at call of thy Academy:
With his own face our Phoebus here we see;
His face his own yet, with its own red dyed,
Which with its whiteness loves to be allied.
O fierce disease, dost thou, with marks profane,
Attempt these cheeks, that countenance, to stain?
Most futile! Dost attempt our Phoebus' face?
Not in our Phoebe her own spots canst trace.
His self-asserting face disdains disease;
'Mid its own rays it sits, O well at ease.
Sure God and heaven and holiest star are here;
Sure 'neath these cheeks smiles Phoebus full and clear.
Our King being safe in face, but touch'd elsewhere,
Proves he was here a god, though a man there. R. WI.