While Sigismunda's deep distress,
Which looks the soul of wretchedness;
When I, with slow and soft'ning pen,
Have gone o'er all the tints agen,
Shall urge a bold and proper claim
To level half the ancient fame;
While future ages yet unknown,
With critic air shall proudly own,
Thy Hogarth first of every clime,
For humour keen, or strong sublime,