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Anne Kingsmill Finch - To The Painter Of An Ill-drawn Picture Of Cleone
Work rating: Low

Sooner I`d praise a Cloud which Light beguiles, 
Than thy rash Hand which robs this Face of Smiles; 
And does that sweet and pleasing Air control, 
Which to us paints the fair CLEONE`s Soul. 
`Tis vain to boast of Rules or labour`d Art; 
I miss the Look that captivates my Heart, 
Attracts my Love, and tender Thoughts inspires; 
Nor can my Breast be warm`d by common Fires; 
Nor can ARDELIA love but where she first admires. 
Like Jupiter`s, thy Head was sure in Pain 
When this Virago struggl`d in thy Brain; 
And strange it is, thou hast not made her wield 
A mortal Dart, or penetrating Shield, 
Giving that Hand of disproportion`d size 
The Pow`r, of which thou hast disarm`d her Eyes: 
As if, like Amazons, she must oppose, 
And into Lovers force her vanquish`d Foes. 
Had to THEANOR thus her Form been shown 
To gain her Heart, he had not lost his own; 
Nor, by the gentlest Bands of Human Life, 
At once secur`d the Mistress and the Wife. 
For still CLEONE`s Beauties are the same, 
And what first lighten`d, still upholds his Flame. 
Fain his Compassion wou`d thy Works approve, 
Were pitying thee consistent with his Love, 
Or with the Taste which Italy has wrought 
In his refin`d and daily heighten`d Thought, 
Where Poetry, or Painting find no place, 
Unless perform`d with a superior Grace. 
Cou`d but my Wish some Influence infuse, 
Ne`er shou`d the Pencil, or the Sister-Muse 
Be try`d by those who easily excuse: 
But strictest Censors shou`d of either judge, 
Applaud the Artist, and despise the Drudge. 
Then never wou`d thy Colours have debas`d 
CLEONE`s Features, and her Charms defac`d: 
Nor had my Pen (more subject to their Laws) 
Assay`d to vindicate her Beauty`s Cause. 
A rigid Fear had kept us both in Awe, 
Nor I compos`d, nor thou presum`d to draw; 
But in CLEONE viewing with Surprize 
That Excellence, to which we ne`er cou`d rise, 
By less Attempts we safely might have gain`d 
That humble Praise which neither has obtain`d, 
Since to thy Shadowings, or my ruder Verse, 
It is not giv`n to shew, or to rehearse 
What Nature in CLEONE`s Face has writ, 
A soft Endearment, and a chearful Wit, 
That all-subduing, that enliv`ning Air 
By which, a sympathizing Joy we share, 
For who forbears to smile, when smil`d on by the Fair?
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