The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
Now, Gainsborough, let me view thy shining labours,
Who, mounted on thy painting throne,
On other brushmen look'st contemptuous down,
Like our great admirals on a gang of swabbers.
Who, mounted on thy painting throne,
On other brushmen look'st contemptuous down,
Like our great admirals on a gang of swabbers.
My eyes broad-staring wonder leads
To yon dear nest of royal heads !
How each the soul of my attention pulls!
Suppose, my friend, thou giv'st the frame
A pretty little Bible name,
And call'st it Golgotha, the place of skulls?
To yon dear nest of royal heads !
How each the soul of my attention pulls!
Suppose, my friend, thou giv'st the frame
A pretty little Bible name,
And call'st it Golgotha, the place of skulls?
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Say, didst thou really paint 'em? (to be free)
An angel finish'd Luke's transcendent line—
Perchance that civil angel was with thee—
For let me perish if I think them thine.
An angel finish'd Luke's transcendent line—
Perchance that civil angel was with thee—
For let me perish if I think them thine.
Thy dogs
are good!—but yet, to make thee stare,
The piece hath gain'd a number of deriders—
They tell thee, Genius in it had no share,
But that thou foully stol'st the curs from Snyders.
The piece hath gain'd a number of deriders—
They tell thee, Genius in it had no share,
But that thou foully stol'st the curs from Snyders.
I do not blame thy borrowing a hint,
For, to be plain, there's nothing in't—
The man who scorns to do it, is a log:
An eye, an ear, a tail, a nose,
Were modesty, one might suppose;
But, z---ds! thou must not smuggle the whole dog.
For, to be plain, there's nothing in't—
The man who scorns to do it, is a log:
An eye, an ear, a tail, a nose,
Were modesty, one might suppose;
But, z---ds! thou must not smuggle the whole dog.
O Gainsborough! Nature 'plaineth sore,
That thou hast kick'd her out of door,
Who in her bounteous gifts hath been so free,
To cull such genius out for thee—
Lo! all thy efforts without her are vain!
Go find her, kiss her, and be friends again.
That thou hast kick'd her out of door,
Who in her bounteous gifts hath been so free,
To cull such genius out for thee—
Lo! all thy efforts without her are vain!
Go find her, kiss her, and be friends again.
Speak, Muse, who form'd that matchless head,
The Cornish Boy , in tin mines bred;
Whose native genius, like his diamonds, shone
In secret, till chance gave him to the sun?
'Tis Jackson's portrait—put the laurel on it,
Whilst to that tuneful swan I pour a sonnet.
The Cornish Boy , in tin mines bred;
Whose native genius, like his diamonds, shone
In secret, till chance gave him to the sun?
'Tis Jackson's portrait—put the laurel on it,
Whilst to that tuneful swan I pour a sonnet.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |