His honest pencil touch'd with truth, He loft his friends, his practice fail'd, In dufty piles his pictures lay, For no one fent the fecond pay. Two buftos, fraught with ev'ry grace, He plac'd in view; refolv'd to please, From these corrected ev'ry feature, And spirited each aukward creature. All things were fet; the hour was come, His pallet ready o'er his thumb, My lord appear'd, and feated right In proper attitude and light, The Painter look'd, he sketch'd the piece, Then dipt his pencil, talk'd of Greece. Of Of Titian's tints, of Guido's air; The feature fraught with sense and wit But yet with patience you shall view As much as paint and art can do. 'Till now I thought my mouth was wide, Dear fir, for me, 'tis far too young. Oh, pardon me, the artist cry'd, In this we painters must decide. The piece ev'n common eyes must strike, My lord examin'd it anew; No looking-glass feem'd half so true, A A lady came, with borrow'd grace Ev'n Beauties were almoft content. Through all the town his art they prais'd, His cuftom grew, his price was rais'd. Had he the real likeness shown, Would any man the picture own? Each found the likeness in his thought. FABLE I.Wootton inv. P. Fourdrinierscul FABLE XIX. The LYON and the CU B. OW fond are men of rule and place, Who court it from the mean and base! These cannot bear an equal nigh, But from fuperior merit fly; They They love the cellar's vulgar joke, And lose their hours in ale and smoke; There o'er fome petty club prefide, So poor, fo paultry is their pride! Nay, ev'n with fools whole nights will fit, If these can read, to these I write, To set their worth in trueft light. A Lyon-cub, of fordid mind, Fond of applause, he fought the feasts With affes all his time he spent, Their club's perpetual president. He caught their manners, looks and airs: An ass in ev'ry thing, but ears! If |