On the Death of the excellent fair Lady, the Lady A. R

How blindly erting were those Painters, that
Did without eies grim Death delineate?
Did he not ayming shoot, and shooting hit
'Midst the Arcadian Nymphs this fairest white,
This whitest Venus Dove? without his light
How had he found this mark, or shot so right?
Thus as he aiming stood, and in his heart
Relenting doubted, whether his fel dart
He should or spare or send, so long he gaz'd
Upon her Beauties splendour all amaz'd,
That the bright raies she darted, did so shine
And dazle the beholding Archers eyne,
That whilst he trembling shot and made her light
Extinct, the beams of that put out his sight.
And so e'r since Death hath been blind indeed;
On her fair Tomb this Epitaph shal be read:
Beautie here on Death reveng'd, Triumphant lies,
Whose Glories won all hearts, put out all eies.