To a Lady, holding her Picture in my Hand, and looking on her Face

Thus, Ixion like, I have maintain'd the chace,
Pursu'd the Goddess, and her Cloud embrace.
O thou, who fly'st with my despairing Heart,
Thou, more a Shadow than thy Picture, art.
Whilst round this Shade my Circling Arms I cast,
Thy Face, which shuns me, holds my Soul as fast.
Here had the fond Narcissus chanc'd to rove,
He and his Shadow too had dy'd for Love.
Let none attempt thy Picture; 'tis in vain;
Ev'n Nature cannot paint it o'er again.