University of Virginia Library


28

ODE XII.

The Lyric Bard groweth witty on Mr. Peters's Angel and Child—and Madam Angelica Kauffman.

Dear Peters! who like Luke the saint,
A man of Gospel art, and paint,
Thy pencil flames not with poetic fury:
If Heav'n's fair angels are like thine,
Our bucks, I think, O grave divine,
May meet in t'other world the nymphs of Drury.
The infant soul I do not much admire:
It boasteth somewhat more of flesh than fire.
The picture, Peters, cannot much adorn ye—
I'm glad though, that the red-fac'd little sinner,
Poor soul! hath made a hearty dinner,
Before it ventur'd on so long a journey.
Angelica my plaudit gains—
Her art so sweetly canvass stains!
Her dames so Grecian! give me such delight!
But, were she married to such gentle males
As figure in her painted tales,
I fear she'd find a stupid wedding-night.