"Whilst the weak Artist, to thy whims a slave, Would bury all those powers which Nature gave, Would suffer blank concealment to obscure Those rays, thy Jealousy could not endure; To feed thy vanity would rust unknown, And to secure thy credit blast his own, In HOGARTH he was sure to find a friend; He could not fear, and therefore might commend. But when his Spirit, rous'd by honest Shame, Shook off that Lethargy, and soar'd to Fame, When, with the pride of Man, resolv'd and strong, He scorn'd those fears which did his Honour wrong, And, on himself determin'd to rely, Brought forth his labours to the public eye, No Friend in Thee, could such a Rebel know; He had desert, and HOGARTH was his foe. "Souls of a timorous cast, of petty name In ENVY'S court, not yet quite dead to shame, May some Remorse, some qualms of Conscience feel, And suffer Honour to abate their Zeal: But the Man, truly and compleatly great, Allows no rule of action but his hate; Through every bar he bravely breaks his way, Passion his Principle, and Parts his prey. Mediums in Vice and Virtue speak a mind Within the pale of Temperance confin'd; The daring Spirit scorns her narrow schemes, And, good or bad, is always in extremes. "Man's practice duly weigh'd, through every age On the same plan hath ENVY form'd her rage. 'Gainst those whom Fortune hath our rivals made In way of Science, and in way of Trade, Stung with mean Jealousy she arms her spite, First works, then views their ruin with delight. Our HOGARTH here a grand improver shines, And nobly on the general plan refines; He like himself o'erleaps the servile bound; Worth is his mark, wherever Worth is found. Should Painters only his vast wrath suffice? Genius in every walk is Lawful Prize. 'Tis a gross insult to his o'ergrown state: His love to merit is to feel his hate. "When WILKES, our Countryman, our common friend, Arose, his King, his Country to defend, When tools of power he bar'd to public view, And from their holes the sneaking cowards drew; When Rancour found it far beyond her reach To soil his honour, and his truth impeach, What could induce Thee, at a time and place, Where manly Foes had blush'd to shew their face, To make that effort, which must damn thy name, And sink Thee deep, deep in thy grave with shame? Did Virtue move Thee? no, 'twas Pride, rank Pride, And if thou hadst not done it, Thou hadst dy'd. MALICE (who, disappointed of her end, Whether to work the bane of Foe or Friend, Preys on herself, and, driven to the Stake, Gives Virtue that revenge she scorns to take) Had kill'd Thee, tottering on life's utmost verge, Had WILKES and LIBERTY escap'd thy scourge.