Methought the BALL she play'd with was my HEART;
(Alas! that sport like that should be her pride!)
And the keen point which steadfast still she eyed
Wherewith to pierce it, that was Cupid's dart;
Shall I not then the cruel Fair condemn
Who on that dart IMPALES my BOSOM'S GEM?
Sonnet II.
To a Painter attempting Delia's Portrait.
Rash Painter! canst thou give the ORB OF DAY
In all its noontide glory? or portray