I may be wrong, and often am no doubt,
But right or wrong with friends with foes 'twill out.
Thus 'tis perhaps my fault if I complain
Of trite invention and a flimsy vein,
Tame characters, uninteresting, jejune, 205
And passions drily copied from [A]Le Brun.
For I would rather never judge than wrong
That friend of all men, generous Fenelon.
But in the name of goodness, must I be 210
The dupe of charms I never yet could see?
And then to flatter where there's no reward--
Better be any patron-hunting bard,
Who half our Lords with filthy praise besmears,
And sing an Anthem to ALL MINISTERS:
Taste th' Attic salt in ev'ry Peer's poor rebus, 215
And crown each Gothic idol for a Phoebus.

[Footnote A: First painter to Lewis XIV. who, to speak in fashionable
French English, _called himself_ LEWIS THE GREAT. Our sovereign lords
the passions, Love, Rage, Despair, &c. were graciously pleased to
sit to him in their turns for their portraits: which he was generous
enough to communicate to the public; to the great improvement, no
doubt, of history-painting. It was he who they say poison'd Le Sueur;
who, without half his advantages in many other respects, was so
unreasonable and provoking as to display a genius with which his own
could stand no comparison. It was he and his Gothic disciples, who,
with sly scratches, defac'd the most masterly of this Le Sueur's
performances, as often as their barbarous envy could snugly reach
them. Yet after all these atchievements he died in his bed! A