A collection of original poems and translations | ||
287
To the same.
In vain, fair Nymph, thy Pencil wou'd disgraceThe Bloom of Cælia's, or Clarinda's Face;
Against thy Will thou charm'st our ravish'd Eyes,
And what thy Envy prompts, thy Skill denies.
By one judicious Stroke, inform'd we guess
Whose Form inspir'd the Malice of the Piece;
Nor all thy less'ning Colours can suggest,
Can force the sweet Idea from our Breast,
We see 'tis—and forget the rest.
A collection of original poems and translations | ||