This unfortunate picture, which was the source of so much vexation to Mr. _Hogarth_, at least made a versifier of him, and furnished vent to his anger in the following lines; which, as I know of no other specimen of his poetry,[60] may serve to gratify the curiosity of the reader. The old adage _facit indignatio versum_, seems scarcely to have been realised in this splenetic effusion, which is intituled "An Epistle to a Friend," occasioned by Sir _Richard Grosvenor_ (now lord) returning the picture of _Sigismunda_ on our artist's hands: "To your charge, the other day About my picture and my pay, In metre I've a mind to try, One word by way of a reply. "To risque, you'll own, 'twas most absurd, Such labour on a rich man's word; To lose at least an hundred days Of certain gain, for doubtful praise; Since living artists ne'er were paid; But then, you know, it was agreed, I should be deem'd an artist dead. Like _Raphael, Rubens, Guido Rene,_ This promise fairly drew me in; And having laid my pencil by,[61] What painter was more dead than I? But dead as _Guido_ let me be, Then judge, my friend, 'twixt him and me If merit crowns alike the piece, What treason to be like in price; Because no copied line you trace, The picture can't be right, you're sure; But say, my critic connoisseur, Moves it the heart as much or more Than picture ever did before? This is the painter's truest test, And this Sir _Richard's_ self confess'd. Nay, 'tis so moving, that the knight Can't even bear it in his sight; Then who would tears so dearly buy, As give four hundred pounds to cry? I own, he chose the prudent part, Rather to break his word than heart; And yet, methinks, 'tis ticklish dealing, With one so delicate--in feeling. "However, let the picture rust, Perhaps time's price-enhancing dust, As statues moulder into earth, When I'm no more, may mark its worth; And future connoisseurs may rise, Honest as ours, and full as wise, To puff the piece and painter too, And make me then what _Guido's_ now."