WHen I behold my Picture, and perceive,
How vaine it is, our Portraitures to leave
In Lines, and Shadowes, (which make shewes, to day,
Of that which will, to morrow, fade away)
And, thinke, what meane Resemblances at best,
Are by Mechanike Instruments exprest;
I thought it better, much, to leave behind me,
Some Draught, in which, my living friends might find me
The same I am; in that, which will remaine,
Till all is ruin'd, and repair'd againe: