Three merry lads, with envy stung, Because Dan's face is better hung, Combined in verse to rhyme it down, And in its place set up their own; As if they'd run it down much better By number of their feet in metre. Or that its red did cause their spite, Which made them draw in black and white. Be that as 'twill, this is most true, They were inspired by what they drew. Let then such critics know, my face Gives them their comeliness and grace: While every line of face does bring A line of grace to what they sing. But yet, methinks, though with disgrace Both to the picture and the face, I should name them who do rehearse The story of the picture farce; The squire, in French as hard as stone, Or strong as rock, that's all as one, On face on cards is very brisk, sirs, Because on them you play at whisk, sirs. But much I wonder, why my crany Should envied be by De-el-any: And yet much more, that half-namesake Should join a party in the freak. For sure I am it was not safe Thus to abuse his better half, As I shall prove you, Dan, to be, Divisim and conjunctively. For if Dan love not Sherry, can Sherry be anything to Dan? This is the case whene'er you see Dan makes nothing of Sherry; Or should Dan be by Sherry o'erta'en Then Dan would be poor Sherridane 'Tis hard then he should be decried By Dan, with Sherry by his side. But, if the case must be so hard, That faces suffer by a card, Let critics censure, what care I? Backbiters only we defy, Faces are free from injury. MR. ROCHFORT'S REPLY You say your face is better hung Than ours--by what? by nose or tongue? In not explaining you are wrong to us, sir. Because we thus must state the case, That you have got a hanging face, Th' untimely end's a damn'd disgrace of noose, sir. But yet be not cast down: I see A weaver will your hangman be: You'll only hang in tapestry with many; And then the ladies, I suppose, Will praise your longitude of nose, For latent charms within your clothes, dear Danny. Thus will the fair of every age From all parts make their pilgrimage, Worship thy nose with pious rage of love, sir: All their religion will be spent About thy woven monument, And not one orison be sent to Jove, sir. You the famed idol will become, As gardens graced in ancient Rome, By matrons worshipp'd in the gloom of night.[1] O happy Dan! thrice happy sure! Thy fame for ever shall endure, Who after death can love secure at sight. So far I thought it was my duty To dwell upon thy boasted beauty; Now I'll proceed: a word or two t' ye in answer To that part where you carry on This paradox, that rock and stone In your opinion, are all one: How can, sir, A man of reasoning so profound So stupidly be run a-ground, As things so different to confound t'our senses? Except you judged them by the knock Of near an equal hardy block; Such an experimental stroke convinces.