Fairest, where were these Colours sought,
Which full of their own Heaven shine?
Such Shades below were never wrought,
And no Art here, is so Divine .

May we not think these Features , were
Th' unseen Art , of a Hand unseen?
None knows, in all that does appear,
Where these Lines end, or those begin.

Knitting of Parts together, seems
The finest Sight , to pose as much,
As the soft moulding of the Limbs ,
Or the smooth Skin , the slendrest Touch .

Cheeks, yong and ruddy , as those fair
Yong rosie Beauties , have above;
Which old Age , shall no more impair,
Then Angels Beauty , or their Love .

Though no false Raies , encircle round
This Face , as those of heav'nly frame ,
Yours, is with its own Glory crown'd,
And bright , without a borrow'd flame .

The Colours , seem wrought all in Light ,
And your Face , so divinely fair ;
That though you have no Wings , for flight ,
We fear, you'l vanish into Air .

Such is the Artists happy fate,
Such your own , and your Pictures due;
That Judges say, one Angel sate,
For what, another Angel drew.