If found her beauty, then have found my eyes:
As painter's draw their muse, do mine of hers;
That when in blink her lovely youths apprise
Depicting truth as tho' by glass transfers,
No dreaming brush omits the slightest curve;
Nor other light bestow that grace increase;
That artistry does best by mind preserve
So she through time bare not of time's decrease.
Yet could the years by force of cruel age,
Redraw by season's pen what I had drawn?
No! Art's the soldier 'gainst what time can wage:
Whilst skin may crease, by heart is none withdrawn!
But when my mortal eyes close with my time
She shall outlive! Within my ode by rhyme.
