ADVICE TO THE PAINTER'S ADVISER.  

WE Dogs and Lions by their Voices know,  
For by their Notes themselves all Creatures show;  
Yet here's a Thing I know not what to call,  
He roars and barks; what's Good he curses all.  
No Monster that e'er yet from afric came,  
But what would start at thy prodigious Fame;  
Yet we thy Name nor Pedigree can tell,  
Thou dar'st Blaspheme beyond the Mouths of Hell.  
What shall I call thee, Monster, or base Fiend,  
That canst daub Paper to so base an end?  
Unmouth that tongue, maugre its double Pale,  
(Fit Instrument to tell the Devil's Tale)  
Which dared blaspheme that Sacred Majesty,  
The voice of Angels joyed to Deify.  
Foul Traitor, to bespatter such a King  
With th'Aspish Poison of thy slandering,  
Whose every Action (if the Truth we scan)  
Speaks as much God, as his Foes find him Man?  
A Prince so tender of his Subjects Good,  
As would redeem the meanest with his Blood:  
Heavens Joy, Earth's Pride; when After-age shall tell  
His Worth and Parts, 'twill want a Parallel.  
Let Greece and Rome their Hero's Punies call,  
Our Charles the Great I'm sure outdoes 'em all.  
Cursed Caitiff, thy sharp Arrow, bitter word,  
gauled more than Europe's many edged Sword.  
Ye Heavens look to't, he that attempts so high  
As Vice-God Charles, threats Gigantomachy.  
So he that stabbed famed Millain's Duke of yore,  
By Practice at his Picture did no more.  
But (Oh! the Devil) see the Serpent flies  
To his first course, he doubles his Advice  
To a poor Painter; to draw this and that,  
And draws himself into the Lord knows what.  
Even so those Brats of sin we blush to own,  
We bring to others doors, and lay them down.  
But (pox upon his Picture) to be short,  
The wary White could have no colour for't;  
Else Hell had paid the Wages of th'abuse,  
His Quidlibit audendi's no excuse.  
King's failings (if theyare any) ought not lie  
An open Prospect for the Vulgar Eye.  
He that drew Alexander's scarry Face,  
Discreetly put his Finger on the place:  
But where's the Artist that can frame a Line,  
To Shadow or Eclipse the Glorious Shine  
Of CHARLES' Ray? what Eagle-eye can gaze  
On so much Sun, or fully such a Blaze.  
Illustrious i'th' Abstract, whose each Glance  
Would strike Presumption out of Countenance;  
Much less can any draw his Treasured Mind,  
To every Noble Virtuous Mood inclined;  
Unblemished as the Saints, the Sun less clear  
In that first Shine which Summered all the Year:  
Our Painters well knew this, who e'er read o'er  
A Face more puzzling Art, a Mind much more.  
Then, Devil do thy worst, with thy Advice,  
CHARLES and his Court are 'bove thy Calumnies.  
Powers and Dignities approach the Skies,  
Like Ships the more the Waves do under rise.  
But 'tis not each Gods-Fate alone, else why  
Do Miscreants slight the Angel's Ministry?  
Ours is but little lower, one remove,  
Vicegerent to the King of Kings above.  
The best are still the most maligned with wrong,  
Virtue's no fence against a spiteful Tongue;  
He spares no State, or Sex, each Princely one  
Is th'Object of his profanation.  
Tho pure as new fallen Snow, free from offence,  
As blameless Truth, and white as Innocence.  
His breath blasts those, whose breath perfuming Air,  
Makes all (save that) as sweet as they are fair,  
Unbittered Bitterness itself of all.  
Earth's Heavenly few, the most Angelical,  
But Vice be damned, thou art like one of those,  
Who giddied in a Ship at Sea, suppose  
The Continent doth move as well as they.  
All tread awry to those whose Feet are splay.  
If (though our thoughts are free) we must not think  
Ill of the King; he that shall black his Ink,  
And pale his Paper with words, startles more,  
Than, Lord, have mercy, chalked upon the door.  
To traduce Princes in the shapes of sin,  
Wise Painters choose to draw the Devil in;  
The marks o'th' Beasts, who casts an eye  
On those (as on a Basilisk) must die.  
The Mecha Pilgrims at their Prophet's Tomb,  
Need nothing else to make them blind or dumb.  
Here now my Muse would sit as Judge at last,  
And Sentence pass on every Sentence past;  
But he's not worth the while, Avaunt, be gone;  
Yet first attend thy Benedistion:  
Thou that dar'st own, and dost desire no Name,  
But what is Registered to endless shame,  
Live long in all the Plagues this World affords;  
And if thou wilt repent and eat thy words  
To choke thee; or, to give the Devil's due,  
The Hangman draw thee, and thy Painter too.   
FINIS.