Apelles enamour'd of Campaspe, Alexanders Mistris

POore Painter while I sought
To counterfeit by Art
The fairest Frame which Nature ever wrought,
And having limm'd each Part
Except her matchlesse Eyes:
Scarce on those Suns I gaz'd,
As Lightning falls from Skies,
When straight my Hand grew weake, my Mind amazd,
And ere that Pencill halfe them had exprest▪
Love had them drawn, no, grav'd them in my Brest.