The Unsatisfactory Painter.

        Lest captious men suspect your story,
        Speak modestly its history.
        The traveller, who overleaps the bounds
        Of probability, confounds;
        But though men hear your deeds with phlegm,
        You may with flattery cram them.
        Hyperboles, though ne'er so great,
        Will yet come short of self-conceit.

        A painter drew his portraits truly,
        And marked complexion and mien duly; -
        Really a fellow knew the picture,
        There was nor flattery nor delicture.
        The eyes, and mouth, and faulty nose,
        Were all showed up in grim repose;
        He marked the dates of youth and age -
        But so he lost his clientage:
        The which determined to recover,
        He turned in mind the matter over.
        He bought a pair of busts - one, Venus,
        The other was Apollo Phoebus;
        Above his subject client placed them,
        And for the faulty features traced them.
        Chatted the while of Titian's tints,
        Of Guido - Raphael - neither stints
        To raise him to the empyrëal,
        Whilst he is sketching his ideal.
        He sketches, utters, "That will do:
        Be pleased, my lord, to come and view."
        "I thought my mouth a little wider."
        "My lord, my lord, you me deride, ah!"
        "Such was my nose when I was young."
        "My lord, you have a witty tongue."
        "Ah well, ah well! you artists flatter."
        "That were, my lord, no easy matter."
        "Ah well, ah well! you artists see best."
        "My lord, I only (aside) earn my fee best."

        So with a lady - he, between us,
        Borrowed the face and form of Venus.
        There was no fear of its rejection -
        Her lover voted it perfection.
        So on he went to fame and glory,
        And raised his price - which ends the story; -
        But not the moral, - which, though fainter,
        Bids one to scorn an honest painter.