Classic Poem

Nature , and Art are here att Strife;
This Shaddow comes soe neare the life,
Sitt still (Deare Lely) th' hast done that
Thy selfe must Love, and wonder att;
What other Ages ere could boast,
Ether remaininge yet, or Lost,
Are triviall toyes, and must give place
To this, that counterfeits her Face:
Yet Ile not say, but there have beene,
In every past Age, Paintings seene
Both Good, and Like, from every hand,
That ever could it selfe command,
But non Like her; surely she sate
Thy Pencill thus to celebrate
Above all others that could claime
An Echo from the voyce of Fame.
For he, that most, or with most cause,
Speaks, or may speak, his owne applause,
Can't, when hee shows his Maister peice,
Bragg, hee ere did a face like this.
Such is thy Chance to be the man,
Non, but whoe shares thy Honour, can;
If such another doe arise,
To steale more glory from her eyes;
But 'twould improvident bounty show
To Hazard such a Beautie so;
'Tis strange thy judgment did not erre,
Or want a Hand, beholdinge Her,
Whose awing Graces well might make
Th' assured'st Pencill to Mistake.
To her, and truth then, what a crime,
To us, to all the world, and time
(Whoe most'will want her copie) 'twere
To have it then unlike appeare!
But shee's preserved from that Fate,
Thou know'st soe well to imitate,
And in that imitation, show
What oyle and colour mixt can do;
So well, that had this peice the grace
Of motion, shee, and non else has,
Or, if it coulde the odour breath
That her departing Sighs bequeath,
And had her warmth, it then would be
Her glorious Self, and non but Shee.
Soe well 'tis done; but thou canst go
No farther than what Art can do:
And when all's done, this, thou hast made,
Is but a Nobler kinde of Shade;
And thou, though thou hast playd thy Part,
A Painter, noe Creatour art.