"How could'st Thou then to shame perversely run, And tread that path which Nature bade Thee shun? Why did Ambition overleap her rules, And thy vast parts become the Sport of Fools? By different methods different Men excell, But where is He who can do all things well? Humour thy Province, for some monstrous crime Pride struck Thee with the frenzy of _Sublime_. But, when the work was finish'd, could thy mind So partial be, and to herself so blind, What with Contempt All view'd, to view with awe, Nor see those faults which every Blockhead saw? Blush, Thou vain Man, and if desire of Fame, Founded on real Art, thy thoughts inflame, To quick destruction SIGISMUNDA give, And let her memory die, that thine may live. "But should fond Candour, for her Mercy's sake, With pity view, and pardon this mistake; Or should Oblivion, to thy wish most kind, Wipe off that stain, nor leave one trace behind; Of ARTS _despis'd_, of ARTISTS by thy frown _Aw'd from just hopes_, of _rising worth kept down_, Of all thy meanness through this mortal race, Canst Thou the living memory erase? Or shall not Vengeance follow to the grave, And give back just that measure which You gave? With so much merit, and so much success, With so much power to curse, so much to bless, Would He have been Man's friend, instead of foe, HOGARTH had been a little God below. Why then, like savage Giants, fam'd of old, Of whom in Scripture Story we are told, Dost Thou in cruelty that strength employ, Which Nature meant to save, not to destroy? Why dost Thou, all in horrid pomp array'd, Sit grinning o'er the ruins Thou hast made? Most rank ill-nature must applaud thy art; But even Candour must condemn thy heart. "For Me, who, warm and zealous for my Friend, In spite of railing thousands, will commend, And, no less warm and zealous 'gainst my foes, Spite of commending thousands, will oppose, I dare thy worst, with scorn behold thy rage, But with an eye of Pity view thy Age; Thy feeble Age, in which, as in a glass, We see how men to dissolution pass. Thou _wretched Being_, whom, on Reason's plan, So chang'd, so lost, I cannot call a Man, What could persuade Thee, at this time of life, To launch afresh into the Sea of Strife? Better for Thee, scarce crawling on the earth, Almost as much a child as at thy birth, To have resign'd in peace thy parting breath, And sunk unnotic'd in the arms of Death. Why would thy grey, grey hairs, resentment brave, Thus to go down with sorrow to the grave? Now, by my Soul, it makes me blush to know My Spirits could descend to such a foe. Whatever cause the vengeance might provoke, It seems rank Cowardice to give the stroke.