 | Poems &c. By James Shirley |  |
To the Painter preparing to draw M. M. H.
Be not too forward Painter: 'tis
More for thy fame, and art, to misse
All other faces, then come neer
The Lady, that expecteth here:
Be wise, and think it lesse disgrace
To draw an Angel, then her face:
For in such formes, who is so wise
To tell thee where thy error lies?
But since all beauty (that is known)
Is in her Virgin sweetnes, One,
How can it be, that painting her,
But every look should make thee erre?
But thou art resolute I see;
Yet let my fancy walk with thee:
Compose a ground more dark and sad,
Then that the early Chaos had:
And shew, to the whole Sexes shame,
Beauty was darknes till she came:
Then paint her eyes, whose active light
Shall make the former shadows bright:
And with their every beam supply
New day, to draw her picture by:
Now, if thou wilt compleat the face,
A wonder paint in every place.
More for thy fame, and art, to misse
All other faces, then come neer
The Lady, that expecteth here:
Be wise, and think it lesse disgrace
To draw an Angel, then her face:
For in such formes, who is so wise
To tell thee where thy error lies?
But since all beauty (that is known)
Is in her Virgin sweetnes, One,
How can it be, that painting her,
But every look should make thee erre?
13
Yet let my fancy walk with thee:
Compose a ground more dark and sad,
Then that the early Chaos had:
And shew, to the whole Sexes shame,
Beauty was darknes till she came:
Then paint her eyes, whose active light
Shall make the former shadows bright:
And with their every beam supply
New day, to draw her picture by:
Now, if thou wilt compleat the face,
A wonder paint in every place.
Beneath these, for her fair necks sake,
White, as the Paphian Turtles, make
A pillar, whose smooth base doth show
It self lost in a mount of snow:
Her brest, the house of chast desire,
Cold, but increasing others fire.
White, as the Paphian Turtles, make
A pillar, whose smooth base doth show
It self lost in a mount of snow:
Her brest, the house of chast desire,
Cold, but increasing others fire.
But how I lose (instructing thee)
Thy pencil, and my Poetry?
For when thou hast exprest all art,
As high as truth, in every part,
She can resemble at the best,
One, in her beauties silence drest,
Where thou, like a dull looker on,
Art lost, and all thy art undone:
For if she speak, new wonders rise
From her teeth, chin, lip, and eyes:
So far above that excellent
Did take thee first, thou wo't repent
To have begun, and lose i'th' end
Thy eyes with wonder how to mend.
At such a losse, here's all thy choice,
Leave off, or paint her with a voice.
Thy pencil, and my Poetry?
For when thou hast exprest all art,
As high as truth, in every part,
She can resemble at the best,
One, in her beauties silence drest,
Where thou, like a dull looker on,
Art lost, and all thy art undone:
For if she speak, new wonders rise
From her teeth, chin, lip, and eyes:
So far above that excellent
Did take thee first, thou wo't repent
To have begun, and lose i'th' end
Thy eyes with wonder how to mend.
14
Leave off, or paint her with a voice.
| Poems &c. By James Shirley | |