Where greater pens have spent all love’s fair ink

And sweeter voices sang resplendent songs,

Proud  poets press their favored muse to think

Of verse to stir the weary-hearted throng;

The finest quills that paper e’er embraced

Have professed love here—be it false or true—

Of all the silhouettes their praises trace

Yet none has ever limned a form like you.

Your beauty far exceeds both word and rhyme

Or any likeness wrought by grand compare;

No simile save that which gods design

Could best that visage hailed in heaven’s air.

On this my pen shall rest, for well I know,

No mortal lines e’er writ can best your show.