“Say, Master Allen, hast thou seen
The connoisseuring race,
Breathless, amazed, on Dulwich-green,
My lines of beauty trace?
Who foremost now delights to stop
To look at God’s Gift[34] picture shop;
Is’t Nash, or Smirke, or Gwilt?
Do not the knowing loungers cry,
‘My eye!’ at my sarcophagi,
And guess by whom ’twas built!”