Come painter, with thy happiest slight

Come painter, with thy happiest slight,
Portray me every grace,
In that blest region of delight,
My charming Sylvia's face:
And hear me painter, to enhance
The value of thine art,
Steal from her eyes that very glance
That stole away my heart.

Her forehead paint, in sway and rule,
Where sits, with pleasure grac'd,
A form like Venus beautiful,
And like Diana chaste:
Then paint her cheeks, come paint and gaze,
Guard well thy heart the while,
And then her mouth, where Cupid plays
In an eternal smile.

Next draw—presumptuous painter hold;
Ah think'st to thee twas given
To paint her bosom?—would'st so bold
Presume to copy heaven!
Nay leave the task, for 'tis above,
Far, far above thine art;
Her portrait's drawn—the painter love,
The tablet my fond heart.