By such our nature is disgraced,
He flies the sacred shrine of taste.
When my company was going to retire, the God addressed them in terms to this effect, for I am not permitted to use his own words.
Farewell, my much loved friends, farewell,
Since you in poetry excel;
Let not to Paris, dire disgrace,
My rival there possess my place.
False taste I know, from your keen eyes,
In terror and confusion flies;
If ever you should meet that foe,
You'll him by this description know:
His tawdry dress, is void of grace,
His air's affected, and his face,
He forces oft a languid smile,
And talks in the true coxcomb's style;
He takes my name, assumes my shape
Of genuine taste, the awkward ape;
For he's the son of art at most,
Whilst nature as my fire I boast.
