Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud;

Match me, ye harems of the land! where now

I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud

Beauties that ev'n a cynic must avow;[ct]

Match me those Houries, whom ye scarce allow

To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind,

With Spain's dark-glancing daughters—deign to know,

There your wise Prophet's Paradise we find,

His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind.