The poem
Clora come view my Soul, and tell Whether I have contriv'd it well. Now all its several lodgings lye Compos'd into one Gallery; And the great Arras-hangings, made Of various Faces, by are laid; That, for all furniture, you'l find Only your Picture in my Mind.
Here Thou art painted in the Dress Of an Inhumane Murtheress; Examining upon our Hearts Thy fertile Shop of cruel Arts: Engines more keen than ever yet Adorned Tyrants Cabinet; Of which the most tormenting are Black Eyes, red Lips, and curled Hair.
But, on the other side, th' art drawn Like to Aurora in the Dawn; When in the East she slumb'ring lyes, And stretches out her milky Thighs; While all the morning Quire does sing, And Mamma falls, and Roses spring; And, at thy Feet, the wooing Doves Sit perfecting their harmless Loves.
Like an Enchantress here thou show'st, Vexing thy restless Lover's Ghost; And, by a Light obscure, dost rave Over his Entrails, in the Cave; Divining thence, with horrid Care, How long thou shalt continue fair; And (when inform'd) them throw'st away, To be the greedy Vultur's prey.
But, against that, thou sit'st a float Like Venus in her pearly Boat. The Halcyons, calming all that's nigh, Betwixt the Air and Water fly. Or, if some rowling Wave appears, A Mass of Ambergris it bears. Nor blows more Wind than what may well Convoy the Perfume to the Smell.
These Pictures and a thousand more, Of Thee, my Gallery dost store; In all the Forms thou can'st invent Either to please me, or torment: For thou alone to people me, Art grown a num'rous Colony; And a Collection choicer far Then or White-hall's, or Mantua's were.
But, of these Pictures and the rest, That at the Entrance likes me best: Where the same Posture, and the Look Remains, with which I first was took. A tender Shepherdess, whose Hair Hangs loosely playing in the Air, Transplanting Flow'rs from the green Hill, To crown her Head, and Bosome fill.