3. A Midnight Modern Conversation. _W. Hogarth inv. pinx. & sculp. Hogarth_ soon discovered that this engraving was too faintly executed; and therefore, after taking off a few impressions in red as well as black, he retouched and strengthened the plate. Under this print are the following verses: Think not to find one meant resemblance here, We lash the Vices, but the Persons spare. Prints should be priz'd, as Authors should be read, Who sharply smile prevailing Folly dead. So _Rabilaes_ laught, and so _Cervantes_ thought, So Nature dictated what Art has taught. Most of the figures, however, are supposed to be real portraits. The Divine and the Lawyer,[1] in particular, are well known to be so. A pamphlet was published about the same time, under the same title as this plate. In _Banks's_ Poems, vol. I. p. 87. the print is copied as a head-piece to an Epistle to Mr. _Hogarth_, on this performance. In a note, it is said to have appeared after _The Harlot's Progress_; and that in the original, and all the larger copies, on the papers that hang out of the politician's pocket at the end of the table, was written _The Craftsman_, and _The London Journal_. Of this print a good, but contracted copy, was published (perhaps with _Hogarth's_ permission), and the following copy of verses engraved under it. The Bacchanalians; or a Midnight Modern Conversation. A Poem addressed to the Ingenious Mr. _Hogarth_. Sacred to thee, permit this lay Thy labour, _Hogarth_, to display! Patron and theme in one to be! 'Tis great, but not too great for thee; For thee, the Poet's constant friend, Whose vein of humour knows no end. This verse which, honest to thy fame, Has added to thy praise thy name! Who can be dull when to his eyes Such various scenes of humour rise? Now we behold in what unite The Priest, the Beau, the Cit, the Bite; Where Law and Physick join the Sword, And Justice deigns to crown the board: How _Midnight Modern Conversations_ Mingle all faculties and stations! Full to the sight, and next the bowl, Sits the physician of the soul; No loftier themes his thought pursues Than Punch, good Company, and Dues: Easy and careless what may fall, He hears, consents, and fills to all; Proving it plainly by his face That cassocks are no signs of grace. Near him a son of _Belial_ see; (That Heav'n and _Satan_ should agree!) Warm'd and wound up to proper height He vows to still maintain the fight, The brave surviving Priest assails, And fairly damns the first that fails; Fills up a bumper to the Best In Christendom, for that's his taste: The parson simpers at the jest, And puts it forward to the rest.