THUS  of old, the Walls adorn'd,
Ere noblest Dames the artful  scorn'd:
then, with  did contest,
And scarce th' Immortal Work was judg'd the Best.
Nor valorous Actions, then, in Books were sought;
But all the Fame, that from the Field was brought,
Employ'd the  where the kind  wrought:
Whilst sharing in the Toil, she shar'd the Fame,
And with the  mixt her interwoven Name.
No longer,  to such Praise aspire,
And seldom now We rightly do admire.
So much, All Arts are by the  engross'd,
And Our few Talents unimprov'd or cross'd;
Even I, who on this Subject wou'd compose,
Which the fam'd  for his Pencil chose,
(And here, in tinctur'd Wool we now behold
Correctly follow'd in each Shade, and Fold)
Shou'd prudently from the Attempt withdraw,
But Inclination proves the stronger Law:
And tho' the Censures of the World pursue
These hardy Flights, whilst his  I view;
My burden'd Thoughts, which labour for a Vent,
Urge me t'explain in Verse, what by each Face is meant.