"She throws her eyes about the painting round,

And whom she finds forlorn, she doth lament;

At last she sees a wretched image bound,

That piteous looks to Phrygian shepherds lent;

His face, though full of cares, yet show'd content:

Onward to Troy with the blunt swains he goes,

So mild, that Patience seem'd to scorn his woes.

In him the painter labour'd with his skill

To hide deceit, and give the harmless show

An humble gait, calm looks, eyes wailing still,