Classic Poem

Such is the rare perfection of sweete Beautie
Of my faire ALBA, my sole choise Delight:
That if that any PAINTER doth his dutie,
To shadow forth her Luster passing bright,
He loseth both his labour and his time,
As one ore bold, so high a step to clime.

For whilst he gives his minde attentively,
And studieth to match Nature with his Art,
Marking her Feature with a watchfull eye,
To portray forth most lively every part:
Such brightnes comes from her, such glistring rayes,
As he's struck blinde, and darkned goes his wayes.

This is the cause, that who in hand doth take,
In curious wise her pearlesse Counterfate,
Hoping himselfe immortall so to make,
Doth fall into like dangerous estate:
Thinking to shadow her, he shadowed is,
And so his eyes, and purpose he doth misse.

That, she were drawne in midst of Hart it were
Far better, (and (my selfe) have plaste her so)
For though in darke she hidden doth appeere,
Yet unto me she faire and bright doth show,
My Hart's the Boord, where limnde you may her see;
My Teares the Oyle, my Blood the Colours bee.