And spirited each awkward creature. 
     All things were set; the hour was come,
  His pallet ready o’er his thumb,
  My lord appeared; and seated right
  In proper attitude and light,
  The painter looked, he sketched the piece,
  Then dipp’d his pencil, talked of Greece,
  Of Titian’s tints, of Guido’s air;
  ’Those eyes, my lord, the spirit there
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  Might well a Raphael’s hand require,
  To give them all the native fire;
  The features fraught with sense and wit,
  You’ll grant are very hard to hit;
  But yet with patience you shall view
  As much as paint and art can do. 
  Observe the work.’  My lord replied: 
  ’Till now I thought my mouth was wide;
  Besides, my mouth is somewhat long;
  Dear sir, for me, ‘tis far too young.’
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     ‘Oh! pardon me,’ the artist cried,
  ’In this, the painters must decide. 
  The piece even common eyes must strike,
  I warrant it extremely like.’ 
     My lord examined it anew;
  No looking-glass seemed half so true. 
     A lady came, with borrowed grace
  He from his Venus formed her face. 
  Her lover praised the painter’s art;
  So like the picture in his heart!
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  To every age some charm he lent;
  Even beauties were almost content. 
  Through all the town his art they praised;
  His custom grew, his price was raised. 
  Had he the real likeness shown,
  Would any man the picture own? 
  But when thus happily he wrought,
  Each found the likeness in his thought.

* * * * *

FABLE XIX.

THE LION AND THE CUB.

  How fond are men of rule and place,
  Who court it from the mean and base! 
  These cannot bear an equal nigh,
  But from superior merit fly. 
  They love the cellar’s vulgar joke,
  And lose their hours in ale and smoke. 
  There o’er some petty club preside;
  So poor, so paltry is their pride! 
  Nay, even with fools whole nights will sit,
  In hopes to be supreme in wit.
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  If these can read, to these I write,
  To set their worth in truest light. 
     A lion-cub, of sordid mind,
  Avoided all the lion kind;
  Fond of applause, he sought the feasts
  Of vulgar and ignoble beasts;
  With asses all his time he spent,
  Their club’s perpetual president. 
  He caught their manners, looks, and airs;
  An ass in every thing, but ears!
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  If e’er his highness meant a joke,
  They grinned applause before he spoke;
  But at each word what shouts of praise! 
  Good gods! how natural he brays! 
     Elate with flattery and conceit,
  He seeks his royal sire’s retreat;
  Forward, and fond to show his parts,
  His highness brays; the lion starts. 
     ’Puppy, that cursed vociferation
  Betrays thy life and conversation: 
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