Of a Tree cut in Paper.

FAir Hand that can on Virgin-paper write,
Yet from the stain of Ink preserve it white,
Whose travel o're that Silver Field does show,
Like track of Leveretts in morning Snow;
Love's Image thus in purest minds is wrought,
Without a spot or blemish to the thought;
Strange that your Fingers should the Pencil foil
Without the help of Colours, or of Oil;
For though a Painter Boughs and Leaves can make,
'Tis you alone can make them bend and shake,
Whose Breath salutes your new created Grove
Like Southern winds, and makes it gently move;
Orpheus could make the Forest dance, but you
Can make the Motion and the Forest too.