When the wife of old Jove, with the child of his brain,
And his daughter fo fair, attack'd the young swain;
Poor Paris was sadly bewilder'd to find,
To which of the fair-ones his heart was inclin'd;
Till at length, from his quiver, a mischievous shaft,
Little Cupid produc'd — at which the boy laugh'd —
Then gave it to Venus , who straight let it fly,
And sudden as light'ning reach'd Paris 's eye;
For the queen of sweet smiles the shepherd then sighs,
And yields to bright Venus the laurel and prize.
Thus Damon was smitten with rapture and joy
When your contest, fair ladies, his thoughts did employ.

The praise of Madona vermilion'd his face
With blushes — for want of that virtue and grace,
Which her good-natur'd pen could so easily paint,
Tho' the portrait was bright and original taint.

Next Laura , accomplish'd in head and in heart,
Fair daughter of Clio produc'd her sweet art,
Apollo himself, I fancy, with zeal,
Would wish to imprint the poetical seal.

The third tuneful lady that makes up the choir,
Entranc'd my poor brain, and my heart set on fire —
Ah, Clara! I fear the arrow of C u ',
Instead of the muse's soft weapon you drew;
Or why through my breast do such ecstacies roll,
And the throbs of sweet passion beat high in my soul.
In the name of Apollo , a sprig of green bays
I grant to each lady for her witty lays.