Poems, chiefly pastoral By John Cunningham. The second edition. With the Addition of several pastorals and other pieces |
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THE PICTURE:
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 | Poems, chiefly pastoral |  |
112
THE PICTURE:
A TALE.
A portrait, at my Lord's command,
Compleated by a curious hand:
For dabblers in the nice Vertû
His Lordship set the piece to view,
Bidding their Connoisseurships tell,
Whether the work was finish'd well.
Why—says the loudest, on my word,
'Tis not a Likeness, good my Lord;
Nor, to be plain, for speak I must,
Can I pronounce one feature just.
Another effort streight was made,
Another portraiture essay'd;
The judges were again besought,
Each to deliver what he thought.
Worse than the first—the critics bawl;
O what a mouth! how monstrous small!
Look at the cheeks—how lank and thin!
See, what a most prepost'rous chin!
After remonstrance made in vain,
I'll, says the painter, once again,
(If my good Lord vouchsafes to sit)
Try for a more successful hit:
If you'll to-morrow deign to call,
We'll have a piece to please you all.
To-morrow comes—a picture's plac'd
Before those spurious sons of taste—
In their opinions all agree,
This is the vilest of the three.
“Know—to confute your envious pride,
(His Lordship from the canvas cry'd)
“Know—that it is my real face,
“Where you could no resemblance trace:
“I've try'd you by a lucky trick,
“And prov'd your Genius to the quick.
“Void of all judgement—justice—sense,
“Out—ye pretending varlets—hence.”
Compleated by a curious hand:
For dabblers in the nice Vertû
His Lordship set the piece to view,
Bidding their Connoisseurships tell,
Whether the work was finish'd well.
Why—says the loudest, on my word,
'Tis not a Likeness, good my Lord;
Nor, to be plain, for speak I must,
Can I pronounce one feature just.
Another effort streight was made,
Another portraiture essay'd;
The judges were again besought,
Each to deliver what he thought.
Worse than the first—the critics bawl;
O what a mouth! how monstrous small!
Look at the cheeks—how lank and thin!
See, what a most prepost'rous chin!
113
I'll, says the painter, once again,
(If my good Lord vouchsafes to sit)
Try for a more successful hit:
If you'll to-morrow deign to call,
We'll have a piece to please you all.
To-morrow comes—a picture's plac'd
Before those spurious sons of taste—
In their opinions all agree,
This is the vilest of the three.
“Know—to confute your envious pride,
(His Lordship from the canvas cry'd)
“Know—that it is my real face,
“Where you could no resemblance trace:
“I've try'd you by a lucky trick,
“And prov'd your Genius to the quick.
“Void of all judgement—justice—sense,
“Out—ye pretending varlets—hence.”
The Connoisseurs depart in haste,
Despis'd—detected—and disgrac'd.
Despis'd—detected—and disgrac'd.
| Poems, chiefly pastoral | |