TO MY FRIEND MR. LELY, ON HIS PICTURE OF THE .. LADY ISABELLA THYNN by CHARLES COTTON

NATURE, and Art are here at strife;
This Shadow comes so near the life,
Sit still (Dear Lely) th' hast done that
Thy self must love, and wonder at;
What other Ages e'er could boast,
Either remaining yet, or lost,
Are trivial toys, and must give place
To this, that counterfeits her face:
Yet I'll not say, but there have been,
In every past Age, paintings seen
Both good, and like from every hand,
That once had maistry and command,
But none like her; surely she sat
Thy pencil thus to celebrate
Above all others that could claim
An echo from the voice of Fame.
For he, that most, or with most cause,
Speaks, or may speak his own applause,
Can't, when he shows his Masterpiece,
Brag, he e'er did a face like this.
Such is thy chance to be the man,
None, but who shares thy honour, can;
If such another do arise,
To steal more glory from her eyes;
But 'twould improvident bounty show
To hazard such a Beauty so;
'Tis strange thy judgment did not err,
Or want a hand, beholding her,
Whose awing graces well might make
Th' assured'st pencil to mistake.
To her, and Truth then, what a crime,
To us, to all the World, and Time
(Who most will want her copy) 'twere
To have it then unlike appear!
But she's preserved from that fate,
Thou know'st so well to imitate,
And in that imitation, show
What oil and colour mixed can do;
So well, that had this piece the grace
Of motion, she and none else has,
Or, if it could the odour breathe
That her departing sighs bequeath,
And had her warmth, it then would be
Her glorious self, and none but she.
So well 'tis done; but thou canst go
No farther than what Art can do:
And when all's done: this, thou hast made,
Is but a nobler kind of Shade;
And thou, though thou hast played thy part,
A Painter, no Creator art.

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