"Come, _Hogarth_, thou whose art can best declare What forms, what features, human passions wear, Come, with a painter's philosophic sight, Survey the circling judges of the fight. Touch'd with the sport of death, while every heart Springs to the changing face, exert thy art; Mix with the smiles of Cruelty at pain Whate'er looks anxious in the lust of gain; And say, can aught that's generous, just, or kind, Beneath this aspect, lurk within the mind? Is lust of blood or treasure vice in all, Abhorr'd alike on whomsoe'er it fall? Are mighty states and gamblers still the same? And war itself a cock-fight, and a game? Are sieges, battles, triumphs, little things; And armies only the game-cocks of kings? Which fight, in Freedom's cause, still blindly bold, Bye-battles only, and the main for gold? "The crested bird, whose voice awakes the morn, Whose plumage streaks of radiant gold adorn, Proud of his birth, on fair _Salopia's_ plain, Stalks round, and scowls defiance and disdain. Not fiercer looks the proud _Helvetians_ wear, Though thunder slumbers in the arms they bear: Nor _Thracia's_ fiercer sons, a warlike race! Display more prowess, or more martial grace. But, lo! another comes, renown'd for might, Renown'd for courage, and provokes the fight. Yet what, alas! avails his furious mien, His ruddy neck, and breast of varied green? Soon thro' his brain the foe's bright weapon flies, Eternal darkness shades his swimming eyes; Prostrate he falls, and quivering spurns the ground, While life indignant issues from the wound. Unhappy hero, had thy humbler life Deny'd thee fame by deeds of martial strife, Still hadst thou crow'd, for future pleasures spar'd, Th' exulting monarch of a farmer's yard. "Like fate, alas! too soon th' illustrious prove, The great by hatred fall, the fair by love; The wise, the good, can scarce preserve a name, Expung'd by envy from the rolls of fame. Peace and oblivion still through life secure, In friendly glooms, the simple, homely, poor. And who would wish to bask in glory's ray, To buy with peace the laurel or the bay? What tho' the wreath defy the lightning's fire, The bard and hero in the storm expire. Be rest and innocence my humbler lot, Scarce known through life, and after death forgot!" [1] A gentleman's seat, about a mile from _Birmingham_, fitted up for the reception of company, in imitation of _Vaux-hall Gardens_. 2. A small oval of Bishop _Hoadly_, ætat. 83. _Hogarth pinx. Sherlock sculp._ * * * * * 1760. 1. Frontispiece to _Tristram Shandy_. Of this plate there are two copies; in the first of which the hat and clock are omitted. _S. Ravenet sculp._ In this plate is the portrait of Dr. _Burton_, of _York_, the Jacobite physician and antiquary, in the character of Dr. _Slop_.