Her Right Name. As Nancy at Her Toylet sat, Admiring This, and blaming That; Tell Me, She said; but tell Me true; The Nymph who cou'd your Heart subdue, What Sort of Charms does She possess? Absolve Me Fair One: I'll confess; With Pleasure I reply'd. Her Hair, In Ringlets rather dark than fair, Does down her Iv'ry Bosom roll, And hiding Half, adorns the Whole. In her high Forehead's fair half-round Love sits in open Triumph crown'd: He in the Dimple of her Chin, In private State by Friends is seen. Her Eyes are neither black, nor grey; Nor fierce, nor feeble is their Ray: Their dubious Lustre seems to show Something that speaks nor Yes, nor No. Her Lips no living Bard, I weet, May say, how Red, how Round, how Sweet: Old Homer only cou'd indite Their vagrant Grace, and soft Delight: They stand Recorded in his Book, When Helen smil'd, and Hebe spoke — The Gipsy turning to her Glass, Too plainly show'd, She knew the Face: And which am I most like, She said, Your Cloe, or Your Nut-brown Maid?