But oh! the painter Muse, though last in place, Has seized the blessing first, like Jacob's race. Apelles' art an Alexander found; And Raphael did with Leo's gold abound; But Homer was with barren laurel crown'd. Thou hadst thy Charles a while, and so had I; But pass we that unpleasing image by. Rich in thyself, and of thyself divine, All pilgrims come and offer at thy shrine. A graceful truth thy pencil can command; 100 The fair themselves go mended from thy hand. Likeness appears in every lineament; But likeness in thy work is eloquent. Though nature there her true resemblance bears, A nobler beauty in thy peace appears. So warm thy work, so glows the generous frame, Flesh looks less living in the lovely dame. Thou paint'st as we describe, improving still, When on wild nature we ingraft our skill; But not creating beauties at our will. 110 But poets are confined in narrower space, To speak the language of their native place: The painter widely stretches his command; Thy pencil speaks the tongue of every land. From hence, my friend, all climates are your own, Nor can you forfeit, for you hold of none. All nations all immunities will give To make you theirs, where'er you please to live; And not seven cities, but the world would strive. Sure some propitious planet, then, did smile, 120 When first you were conducted to this isle: Our genius brought you here to enlarge our fame; For your good stars are everywhere the same. Thy matchless hand, of every region free, Adopts our climate, not our climate thee. Great Rome and Venice early did impart To thee the examples of their wondrous art. Those masters then, but seen, not understood, With generous emulation fired thy blood: For what in nature's dawn the child admired, 130 The youth endeavour'd, and the man acquired. If yet thou hast not reach'd their high degree, 'Tis only wanting to this age, not thee. Thy genius, bounded by the times, like mine, Drudges on petty draughts, nor dare design A more exalted work, and more divine. For what a song, or senseless opera Is to the living labour of a play; Or what a play to Virgil's work would be, Such is a single piece to history. 140 But we, who life bestow, ourselves must live: Kings cannot reign, unless their subjects give; And they who pay the taxes, bear the rule: Thus thou, sometimes, art forced to draw a fool: But so his follies in thy posture sink, The senseless idiot seems at last to think. Good heaven! that sots and knaves should be so vain, To wish their vile resemblance may remain! And stand recorded, at their own request, To future days, a libel or a jest! 150