With dear, unmeaning lumber, from your easels;
Dull heads of the Nobility and Gentry;
Full length of fubsey Belles, or Beaux like weasels!
Come, Limners, hither come! and draw
A finer incident than e’er ye saw!
Here is a John, by moon-light, (a fat monk)
Lying stone dead; and, here, a Roger, quick!
And over John stands Roger, in a funk,
Supposing he has kill’d him with a brick!
There, Painters! there!