To my Cousin Mr. E. F. on his Excellent PAINTING

SHould I in tuneless lines strive to express
That harmony which all your lines confess,
Ambition would my judgment so out-run,
Ev'n as an Archer that would hit the Sun.
My Muse, alas! is of that humble size,
She scarce can to a Counter-tenour rise;
Much less must she to treble notes aspire,
To match the Beauties of your pencil•s Quire:
Yet quite forbear to sing, she can•t, since you
Such ample objects for her praises shew.
No Poet here can have his tongue confin'd,
Unless he's, like his Master Homer, blind,
But must in spight of all his conscious fears,
Say something where such Excellence appears.
Where each line is in such due order plac'd,
Nature stands by afraid to be disgrac'd.
Lo in the Eye such graces do appear,
As if all Beauties were united there.
Yet diff•rent Passions seem therein to move,
Grave ev'n as Wisdom, brisk and sweet as Love:
The lips, which always are committing rapes,
(To which the Youths fly more than Birds to th' Grapes)
With colour that transcends the Indian-lake,
And harmless smiles they do their Conquests make.
I should be tedious should I mention all
Which Iustice would the chiefest Beauties call,
Whose line'ments all harmony do shew,
And yet no less express all Beauty too,
A strange reverse of nature seems to be,
That now we Beauty hear, and Musick see;
Yet just proportion in true numbers meer,
Which make a Chorus even heav'nly sweet.

Could I think Antient Painters equall•d thee,
I should conclude Romance true History;
Not think it strange that Pictures could excite
Those Gallant Hero's then to love and fight;
Nor say that Painters did on them impose,
Since they made Gods and Mortals like to those;
As Poets did create the Deities,
So Painters gave them their ubiquities:
For had not Painters them to th' Vulgar shown,
They only to the Learned had been known:
Nor are we less than they oblig'd to you,
Who give us Beauty, and immortalize it too.