The Poet to the Painter. An Answer

Why, though I seem of a prodigious waist,
I am not so voluminous and vast,
But there are lines, wherewith I might be embrac'd.

'Tis true, as my womb swells, so my back stoops,
And the whole lump grows round, deform'd, and droops;
But yet the Tun at Heidelberg had hoops.

You were not tied by any painter's law
To square my circle, I confess, but draw
My superficies: that was all you saw.

Which if in compass of no art it came
To be described by a monogram,
With one great blot you had formed me as I am.

But whilst you curious were to have it be
An archetype, for all the world to see,
You made it a brave piece, but not like me.

O, had I now your manner, mastery, might,
Your power of handling, shadow, air, and spright,
How I would draw, and take hold and delight!

But you are he can paint, I can but write:
A poet hath no more but black and white,
Ne knows he flattering colours, or false light.

Yet when of friendship I would draw the face,
A letter'd mind, and a large heart would place
To all posterity; I will write Burlase.