Poems, &c. written upon several occasions, and to several persons by Edmond Waller.
Waller, Edmund, 1606-1687.
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RAre Artisan! whose Pensil moves
Not our Delights alone, but Loves
From thy Shop of Beauty, we
Slaves return, that enter'd free-
The heedless Lover does not know
Whose Eyes they are that wound him so:
But confounded with thy Art,
Inquires her name that has his Heart.
Page 31 Another who did long refrain,
Feels his Old wound bleed fresh again,
With dear remembrance of that Face,
Where now he reads new hopes of Grace:
Nor Scorn, nor Cruelty does find;
But gladly suffers a false wind
To blow the ashes of Despair
From the reviving Brand of care:
Fool that forgets her stubborn look,
This softness from thy finger took.
Strange that thy Hand should not inspire
The beauty only, but the fire:
Not the form alone, and grace,
But act and power of a Face.
May'st thou yet thy self as well,
As all the world besides, excel;
So you th'unseigned Truth rehearse;
That I may make it Live in Verse
Page 32 Why thou couldst not at one assay,
That Face to after-times convey,
Which this admires; was it thy wit
To make her oft before thee fit?
Confess, and wee'l Forgive thee this;
For who would not repeat that bliss,
And frequent sight of such a Dame,
Buy with the hazard of his Fame?
Yet who can tax thy blameless skill,
Though thy good hand had failed still?
When Natures self so often errs:
She for this many thousand years
Seems to have practis'd with much care,
To Frame the Race of Women Fair;
Yet never could a perfect Birth
Produce before to grace the Earth:
Which waxed old, e're it could see
Her that amaz'd thy Art and Thee.
Page 33 But now 'tis done, O let me know
Where those immortal Colours grow,
That could this deathless piece compose
In Lillies, or the Fading Rose?
No, for this Thest thou hast climb'd higher
Than did Promethe•s for his Fire.