When nations grow old,
The Arts grow cold,
And Commerce settles on every tree:
And the poor and the old
Can live upon gold,
For all are born poor.
Which concluding enigmatical line indicates, I presume, the age of the annotator at the date of writing.
Again, still alluding to his own case: 'The inquiry in England is, not whether a man has talents and genius, but whether he is passive and polite, and a virtuous ass, and obedient to noblemen's opinions in art and science. If he is, he is a good man; if not, he must be starved.'
In a highly personal strain of sarcastic allusion to the favoured portrait-painters of his era, Blake scribbles in verse—
Some look to see the sweet outlines
And beauteous forms that Love does wear;
Some look to find out patches, paint,
Bracelets and stays and powdered hair.
And in even more eccentric vein:—
When Sir Joshua Reynolds died,
All nature was degraded;
The king dropped a tear
Into the queen's ear,
And all his pictures faded. (!)
Angels of light make sorry wits—handle mere terrestrial weapons of sarcasm and humorous assault in a very clumsy, ineffectual manner.
'I consider Reynolds' Discourses to the Royal Academy,' our annotator in plainer, if still startling words announces, as the simulation of the hypocrite who smiles particularly when he means to betray. His praise of Raphael is like the hysteric smile of revenge; his softness and candour the
