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A Worthy Portrait

I fear no artist would me paint
In halo borne like to a saint
That walks in ringing cloistered halls
To whom upon good virtue falls
My heart would dance with novel schemes
That once are born in vivid dreams
To then be cast upon the winds
The same the avid dream rescinds
Benevolence to kith and kin
The silk my aim is mantled in
Is wasted by the unsmooth hand
That bankrupts purpose carefully planned
Then faults the poor recipient
That stood to gain from such intent
Provoking thus inapt unease
Where eagerness had sought to please
The artist rather would portray
My actions in an unlike way
With sullied colours, crudely stroked
In heathen vestments darkly cloaked
But judge with caution, don’t condemn
My true intentions, think of them
As operations born of grace
And thereby paint my real face

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