When I am rais'd by some more noble flame
To sing of thee, and thy Odelia's name,
So richly set in verse, thy lines invite
Me still to read, and I forget to write.
So when a painter's hand would take the grace
And figure of some admirable face,
Struck with the sight, he lets his pencil fall,
And, when his hand should work, his eye does all.
Yet, if a sense of thy sweet fancy may
Inspire a resolution to betray
My want of skill and choice in husbandry,
To write my own, not read thy poetry;
Be it enough to draw the reader near,
While we but say the wit of Shirley's here.
And though thy worthier friends their flowers bring,
To set forth thy Odelia like the spring,
Men will with envy look upon the dress,
That stays their eyes from the wish'd comeliness,
And when they see her beauty to be such,
Will say their love had shadow'd it too much.