To N. Tate, Esq; on his Poem on the Queen's Picture, Drawn by Closterman. 

Hail mighty Poet, mighty Painter too,
 Since to thy strokes, his equal Lines we owe;
 The sister Arts, are now a Mistery
 And Painture here, has brought forth Poetry. 
Th' inspiring Shade, seems life itself refin'd,
 And all Heavens goodness coppy'd in her Mind;
 So justly each performs his nicer Part,
 As speaks their Skill, yet Beauties without Art:
 The emmulative Ink, bright as the Paint,
 This shows the Queen and that describes the Saint. 
We prize in others still the lasting Soul,
 But ye have Here, immortaliz'd the whole:
 Speak great Apollo thou alone can'st tell,
 Whether the Pencil or the Pen excell. 

Brib'd by the native Ardour of my Breast,
 My Muse no longer will their worth contest:
 But must to Tate yeild the superior Crown,
 Who has compleated Closterman's Renown,
 And in his Praise reverberates his own. 
But oh! what Trophies of immortal Fame,
 Are justly rais'd to sacred Anna's Name. 
Britannia knew not she was half so blest,
 Till the Diviner Raptures of thy Breast,
 Declar'd what else could ne'er have been exprest. 
Her Glory shines in thy Pathetick Lays,
 So Colin once Sung fam'd Elizia Praise;
 Long may thy Astræa Albion's Scepter bear,
 Whilst she the Crown may you the Laurel wear.