I stood amazed, and saw my Licia shine, Fairer than Phœbus, in his brightest pride, Set forth in colors by a hand divine, Where naught was wanting but a soul to guide. It was a picture, that I could descry, Yet made with art so as it seemed to live, Surpa**ing fair, and yet it had no eye, Whereof my senses could no reason give. With that the painter bid me not to muse; "Her eyes are shut, but I deserve no blame; For if she saw, in faith, it could not choose But that the work had wholly been a flame, "Then burn me, sweet, with brightness of your eyes, That phœnix-like from thence I may arise.