ADVICE TO THE PAINTER'S ADVISER.
WE
Dogs and
Lions by their
Voices know,
For by their
Notes themselves all Creatures show;
Yet here's a
Thing I know not what to call,
He
roars and
barks; what's
Good he curses all.
No
Monster that e're yet from
Africk came,
But what would start at thy prodigious
Fame;
Yet we thy
Name nor
Pedigree can tell,
Thou dar'st Blaspheme beyond the Mouths of Hell.
What shall I call thee,
Monster, or
base Fiend,
That canst daub
Paper to so base an end?
Unmouth that
Tougue, maugre its double
Pale,
(Fit
Instrument to tell the
Deuils Tale)
Which dar'd blaspheme that
Sacred Majesty,
The voice of
Angels joy'd to Deifie.
Foul Traitor, to bespatter such a King
With th'Aspish Poison of thy slandering,
Whose ev'ry Action (if the Truth we scan)
Speaks as much
God, as his Foes find him
Man?
A
Prince so tender of his
Subjects Good,
As would redeem the meanest with his
Blood:
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Heavens Joy, Earths Pride; when After-age shall tell
His Worth and Parts, 'twill want a Parallel.
Let
Greece and
Rome their
Heroes Punies call,
Our
Charles the Great I'm sure outdoes 'em all.
Curst
Caitiff, thy
sharp Arrow, bitter word,
Gaul'd more than
Europ's many edged
Sword.
Ye
Heavens look to't, he that attempts so high
As
Vice-God Charles, threats
Gigantomachy.
So he that stabb'd fam'd
Millain's Duke of yore,
By Practice at his
Picture did no more.
But (Oh! the
Devil) see the Serpent flies
To his first course, he doubles his
Advice
To a poor
Painter; to draw this and that,
And
draws himself into the Lord knows what.
Even so those
Brats of sin we blush to own,
We bring to
others doors, and lay them down.
But
(pox upon his Picture) to be short,
The wary
White could have no
colour for't;
Else
Hell had paid the Wages of th'abuse,
His
Quidlibit audendi's no excuse.
Kings failings (if th'are any) ought not lie
An open
Prospect for the
Vulgar Eye.
He that drew
Alexander's scarry Face,
Discreetly put his
Finger on the place:
But where's the
Artist that can frame a Line,
To
Shadow or
Eclipse the
Glorious Shine
Of CHARLES'S
Ray? what
Eagle-eye can gaze
On so much
Sun, or fully such a
Blaze.
Illustrious i'th
Abstract, whose each
Glance
Would strike
Presumption out of Countenance;
Much less can any draw his
Treasur'd Mind,
To every Noble Virtuous
Mood inclin'd;
In that first
Shine which
Summer'd all the
Year:
Our
Painters well knew this, who e'er read o'er
A
Face more puzling
Art, a
Mind much more.
Then,
Devil do thy worst, with thy
Advice,
CHARLES and his Court are 'bove thy
Calumnies.
Powers and
Dignities approach the Skies,
Like Ships the more the VVaves do under rise.
But 'tis not each
Gods-Fate alone, else why
Do
Miscreants slight the
Angels Ministry?
Ours is but little lower, one remove,
Vicegerent to the
King of Kings above.
The best are still the most malign'd with wrong,
Vertue's no fence against a
spiteful Tongue;
He spares no
State, or
Sex, each Princely one
Is th'Object of his
prophanation.
Tho pure as new fall'n
Snow, free from offence,
As blameless Truth, and white as
Innocence.
His breath blasts those, whose breath perfuming
Air,
Makes all (save that) as sweet as they are fair,
Unbitter'd Bitterness it self of all.
Earth's Heavenly few, the most
Angelicall,
But
Vice be damn'd, thou art like one of those,
Who giddi'd in a Ship at Sea, suppose
The
Continent doth move as well as they.
All tread awry to those whose
Feet are splay.
If (though our
thoughts are free) we must not think
Ill of the King; he that shall black his Ink,
And pale his Paper with words, startles more,
Than,
Lord, have mercy, chalk'd upon the door.
To traduce
Princes in the shapes of sin,
Wise
Painters choose to draw the
Devil in;
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marks o'th' Beasts, who casts an eye
On those (as on a
Basilisk) must die.
The
Mecha Pilgrims at their Prophets Tomb,
Need nothing else to make them blind or dumb.
Here now my Muse would sit as Judge at last,
And Sentence pass on every Sentence past;
But he's not worth the while, Avant, be gone;
Yet first attend thy
Benedistion:
Thou that dar'st own, and dost desire no Name,
But what is Registred to endless shame,
Live long in all the Plagues
this World affords;
And if thou wilt repent and eat thy words
To choak thee; or, to give the Devil's due,
The Hangman
draw thee, and thy Painter
too.
FINIS.