Give Mun a sup—forgot will be complaint;
Britain be safe, and Hastings prove a SAINT.
ON AN ARTIST
Who boasted that his pictures had hung near those of Sir Joshua
Reynolds in the Exhibition.
A shabby fellow chanc'd one day to meet
The British Roscius in the street,
Garrick, on whom our nation justly brags—
The fellow hugg'd him with a kind embrace—
"Good sir, I do not recollect your face,"
Quoth Garrick—"No!" replied the man of rags.
"The boards of Drury you and I have trod
Full many a time together, I am sure—"
"When?" with an oath, cried Garrick—"for by G—
I never saw that face of yours before!—
What characters, I pray,
Did you and I together play?"
"Lord!" quoth the fellow, "think not that I mock—
When you play'd Hamlet, sir—I play'd the cock"
ON THE CONCLUSION OF HIS ODES
"FINISH'D!" a disappointed artist cries,
With open mouth, and straining eyes;
Gaping for praise like a young crow for meat—
"Lord! why have you not mentioned ME!"
Mention THEE!
Thy IMPUDENCE hath put me in a SWEAT—
What rage for fame attends both great and small
Better be D—N'D, than mention'd NOT AT ALL!
THE LEX TALIONIS UPON BENJAMIN WEST
West tells the world that Peter can not rhyme—
Peter declares, point blank, that West can't paint.
West swears I've not an atom of sublime—
I swear he hath no notion of a saint;
And that his cross-wing'd cherubim are fowls,
Baptized by naturalists, owls:
Half of the meek apostles, gangs of robbers;
His angels, sets of brazen-headed lubbers.