Thy Cunninge hand layes on to add new Grace,
15Detaine me with such pleasing fraude, that I
Finde in thy art, what can in nature Lie.
Much like a painter that upon some Wall
On which the radiant Sun-beames use to fall
Paints with such art a Gilded butterflye
20That silly maides with slowe-moved fingers trye
To Catch it, and then blush at theire mistake,
Yet of this painted flye most reckonynge make:
Such is our state; since what we looke upon