May make us great, but cannot make us good: That praise be Hogarth's; freely let him wear The wreath which Genius wove, and planted there: Foe as I am, should Envy tear it down, Myself would labour to replace the crown. In walks of humour, in that cast of style, Which, probing to the quick, yet makes us smile; In comedy, his natural road to fame,-- Nor let me call it by a meaner name, 560 Where a beginning, middle, and an end, Are aptly join'd; where parts on parts depend, Each made for each, as bodies for their soul, So as to form one true and perfect whole; Where a plain story to the eye is told, Which we conceive the moment we behold,-- Hogarth unrivall'd stands, and shall engage Unrivall'd praise to the most distant age. How couldst thou, then, to shame perversely run, And tread that path which Nature bade thee shun? 570 Why did ambition overleap her rules, And thy vast parts become the sport of fools? By different methods different men excel; 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? 580 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 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 despised, of artists, by thy frown Awed from just hopes, of rising worth kept down, 590 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, famed of old, Of whom in Scripture story we are told, 600 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, 610 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 changed, so lost, I cannot call a man,