Nor Fears their Thunder or their Vultures more:
But Counterfits their Vultures, Flames and Thunders Roar,
With all th' Artillery of Heaven,
And sends it to their Mansions back again.
This hath the Magick Art of Painting done;
Nor only Things Inanimate,
But e'vn the most Occult Resolves of Fate,
And does through all the Labyrinths of Nature Run.
Ev'n Man it can Create;
Nor Organs, for to make him Speak or Move,
Nor Facultys, to make him Hate or Love,
The Artist wants, nor sends his Prayers to Heav'n,
Pigmalion-like, to have a Spirit giv'n;
But Snatches the Caelestial Fire,
By which, with th' Misteries of his Art,
And Wonders, which his Pencel-Stroaks impart,
With Active Souls his Bodys does Inspire.
Why will ye Boast. O! why, y' Immortal Gods,
That you alone have got the mighty Ods
Of Making Man, and Vast Eternity?
Since Painters you those fancy'd Ods do give,
For in their Portraitures you Live:
And they give you your Immortality:
To Jove his Thunder; Venus, Flame;
Diana, Chastity; Apollo, Fame;
Neptune his Trident; Mars his Plumes and Lance;
And t'all, their Attributes, which fill the Lofty Dance.
Nay at their will they Summon you below,
Their Pleasures and Designs to know;
Chastise you for your Vail'd Escapes,
Venus for her Adulteries and Jove his Rapes,
In all his Metamorphos'd Shapes.
And when they please to shew their Jeers and Scorns,
Make Bacchus, Drunk; and give to Vulcan, Horns.
Then Boast no more your mighty Ods
Of Making Man, since Man 'tis Makes the Gods.