Thou, that wouldst find the habit of true passion,
And see a mind attired in perfect strains;
Not wearing moods, as gallants do a fashion,
In these pied times, only to show their brains,
Look here on Breton's work, the master print:
Where, such perfections to the life do rise.
If they seem wry, to such as look asquint,
The fault's not in the object, but their eyes.
For, as one coming with a lateral view,
Unto a cunning piece wrought pérspective,
Wants faculty to make a censure true:
So with this author's readers will it thrive:
Which being eyed directly, I divine,
His proof their praise will meet, as in this line.