To Amasia, on her filling a Glass with Water, whereon she had Painted Stags, and Birds, and Trees

By this, you prove your Pow'r is truly great,
You Kill at Pleasure, and you here Create.
Some of the Herd, which you so lively drew,
Neglect all Food, and Joy to gaze at you.
While others bow to Drink, and bend so near,
We wonder still to see the Water there.
Actaeon chang'd, had not been here pursu'd,
He had escap'd, secure among the Crowd;
In a fair Spring, by chance, he once descry'd
A Heav'nly Beauty, and transform'd, he dy'd.
And in this place, he might with wonder view
As bright a Goddess, and as fatal too;
In his own shape, he must have dy'd for you.
Your stately Stags rear high their lofty Heads,
Tall as the Trees, in thick, and fruitful Shades,
And a vast Grove above each Forehead spreads.
They, and your Forests, with each other vie,
Nor can I tell which seems more proudly high.
The Trees, fresh Life, from your late Bounty, drew,
As from the Fountain, which you pour'd, they grew,
Became more Green, and Flourish'd all anew.
One Phaenix lives, and that is sprung from Fire,
But many seem to rise from Water here.
Whilst all your sporting Birds prepare to fly,
And cut with gawdy Wings, a strange, unusual Sky.