What  act of ardor moves deft minds to verse

Then by sweet dictate begs of bold compare

That beauties ever live the sweet obverse

And borrow value from all things deemed fair?

Why should we say her smile was like the sun,

Or as Troy’s Helen, had no mortal peer?

Bards begging truth call out white breasts as dun

And claim hyperbole gold clad veneer.

But yet what means exist to esteem grace

In flat-toned script bereft of imagery?

How in blank lines to strike a timeless face

In terms not upraised metaphorically?

Here in most high relief your visage penned,

While on reverse, inscriptions Gods append.