The pencil's amulets forbid to die,
And vest us with a fair eternity.
What think ye of the gods, to whose huge name
The pagans bow'd their humble knees? Whence came
Their immortalities but from a shade,
10But from those portraitures the painter made?
They saddled Jove's fierce eagle like a colt
And made him grasp in 's fist a thunderbolt.
Painters did all: Jove had, at their command,