To Her Portrait

This that you see, the false presentment planned    With finest art and all the colored shows    And reasonings of shade, doth but

The poor deceits by earthly senses fanned!

Here where in constant flattery expand    Excuses for the stains that old age knows,    Pretexts against the years' advancing snows,

The footprints of old seasons to withstand; 'Tis but vain artifice of scheming minds; 'Tis but a flower fading on the winds;     'Tis but a useless protest against Fate;'Tis but stupidity without a thought,     A lifeless shadow, if we meditate;'Tis death, tis dust, tis shadow, yea, 'tis nought.