IF he that erst the form so lively drew
Of Venus' face, triumph'd in painter's art ;
Thy Father then what glory did ensue,
By whose pencil a Goddess made thou art.
Touched with flame that figure made some rue,
And with her love surprised many a heart.
There lack'd yet that should cure their hot desire :
Thou canst inflame and quench the kindled dire.
More verses by Henry Howard
- The Lover Excuseth Himself Of Suspected Change.
- The Burial Of The Dane
- Of Sardanapalus's Dishonorable Life And Miserable Death.
- When Ragyng Loue With Extreme Payne
- Too Dearly Had I Bought