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Whilst Italia's fair harlots with rapture we view,
And embrace the dear strangers—to show our Virtù.
When good Master Christie tricks out his fine show,
All is not pure gold which there glitters, we know;
But with pompous fine titles he humbugs the town,
If the names are but foreign, the trash will go down:
For this purpose, some shrewd picture-merchants, they say,
Keep many a good Raphael and Rubens in pay;
And half the Poussins and Correggios you meet
Were daub'd in a garret in Aldersgate-street:
There with pencils and brushes they drive a snug trade;
There Ancients are form'd and Originals made;
New trifles are shelter'd beneath an old name,
And pictures, like bacon, are smoked into fame.
Such arts we disclaim, and such tricks we despise,
On their own little pinions our eaglets shall rise;
And upheld by your praises, perchance they may soar
To the summit of Fame, which they ne'er reach 'd before.
When strong prepossession no longer shall blind,
Nor the shackles of Prejudice fetter the mind;
The beauties of Truth then old Time shall unveil,
And merit o'er folly and fashion prevail.
Then let's drink to the Great, who are Patrons of Arts,
Who for good British hands have good British hearts;
Abroad who disdain for their pleasures to roam,
But encourage true merit and genius at Home.
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