Classic Poem

Draw my Fair as I command,
Whilst my fancy guides thy hand.
Black her hair must be, yet bright,
Tipt, as with a golden light,
In loose curls thrown o're her Dresse
With a graceful carelessnesse;
On each side her forehead crown
With an Arch of Sable down;
In her black and sprightly Eye
Sweetness mix with Majesty,
That the soul of every Lover
There 'twixt hope and fear may hover:
In her Cheek a blushing red
Must by Bashfulness be spread;
Such her lips, as if from thence
Stole a silent Eloquence:
Round her Face, her Forehead high,
Neck surpassing Ivory;
But why all this care to make
Her description need we take?
Draw her with exactest Art
After Venus in each part;
Or to Samos go, and there
Venus thou mayst draw by Her.