A satire AGAINST PAINTING; IN Burlesque Verse: Submitted to the JUDICIOUS.  
BY An Eminent Hand.  
— ridentem dic●●e Verum  
Quid Vetat?— Horace.  
LONDON, Printed for Abel Roper at the Black-Boy over-against St. Dunstan's Church in Fleetstreet.   

A satire against Painting.  

BY Shadowing Art, (that She- Impostor)  
Highly provoked; we thus accost her.  
Deceitful Face! bewitching Air!  
Whose sweetest Features most ensnare.  
Thou driv'st a subtle cheating Trade,  
By Union of thy Light and Shade.   

Foul Fiend i'th'shape of Angel Bright;  
Mere Phantom thou, and yet no Spirit;  
Appearing only in the Light.   

To teach who often dost pretend;  
When to deludes thy chiefest end.  
Thou gainest our Gold, we nothing get  
From thee, but what is Counterfeit;  
Banquets of Fruit, and 
* Cornucopia.  Horns of Plenty;  
Our Eyes well fed, but Stomaches empty.  
Or where a Portrait you present,  
'Tis surely with a bad Intent:  
That by your Drawings and your Sketches,  
You may abuse some simple Wretches,  
Who for a Line drawn by Apelles,  
Won't stick to rob their Backs and Bellies;  
And for a Touch of Raphael's Hand,  
Will frankly give both House and Land.  
O may it never be your Lot,  
To be encircled by Giott!  
Minds thus enchanted are unsound, ho!  
By always doting on a round 
* Exactness and Perfection, as that of Giotto's Circle made without help of a Compass.  O.  
If ye are caught by Buonaroti,  
His Stout and Swelling Vein will bloat ye.  
If the Brisk Colouring of Titian  
Charm ye, ye're gone too (with submission.)   

If ye're in love with Tint'ret's Fury,  
Ye'll be so hot brained (I assure ye)  
That nought but Hellebore can cure ye.   

If Sarto's Delicacy seize ye;  
After that nothing else will please ye.  
There's Fascination in each Piece,  
Whether from Italy, or Greece:  
The Softness, Sweetness, and Facility,  
Grandeur, Decorum, and Ability,  
Beauty, Elegancy, Brightness,  
Freeness, Airyness, and Lightness,  
Motion, Spirit, and Vivacity,  
Take every Fancy and Capacity:   

Th' Invention, Order, Symmetry,  
Force, shortening, and Success agree,  
To charm our Curiosity:   

To Wound and Captivate the Heart,  
Each Artist's Pencil proves a Dart;  
And makes us oft, as most Men do know,  
Embrace a Cloud instead of Juno.  
In Landscapes there's nor Bush nor Brake  
That's Fair, but what conceals a Snake.  
And none but who has Heart of Oak,  
Can stand against a Master-Stroak.   

To what end's this Impertinence?  
Ye make Dumb Poetry commence,  
A Speaker in its own defence.   

Is it fit to rail 'gainst handsome Faces,  
Because ye can't resist their Graces?  
To damn a sweet and harmless Pleasure,  
Because ye love it out of measure?  
In me, perhaps, ye'll find some Good,  
When that I'm better understood.  
I at my Will and Pleasure can  
Make a Protuberance of a Plan.  
'Tis I, in 'midst of Frost and Snows,  
The Verdure of the Spring expose;  
And tho' from hence it very far is,  
I can in London show ye Paris;  
Nay, when as Calm as Calm can be,  
Can show a dreadful Storm at Sea.  
Show ancient Heroes long since rotten,  
That they may never be forgotten.  
Can make what's past, as if 'twere present;  
What's very old, as very recent.   

Of Souls not only show the Case,  
But can the very Mind Express,  
Without a Hieroglyphic Dress.   

A Wise Man I can make appear,  
Tho Beardless, a Philosopher.  
Can tell ye, (if I once were fired)  
I came from Heaven, and am inspired.  
To me alone's ascribed the Glory,  
That I exceed the force of Story.  
What by faint Hear-say That does show,  
I represent unto your View.  
And where the Art of Sculpture fails,  
My noble Faculty prevails.  
Carving ape me, where they are tender,  
But cannot Copy Light and Splendour.  
No King a Consort seeks from far,  
But makes me his Ambassador.   

Although you bear your Head so high,  
As if you meant to reach the Sky;  
Yet we your Origine can display,  
And s●ew you sprung from Cole and Clay:  
Scrawling and Daubing you begat,  
Of t●ese you are the sorry Brat.  
As Daubing ' got, Daubing supports you,  
They sooth and flatter you, who court you;  
And of a Paltry Thing (which odd is)  
Would make you think yourself a Goddess.   

We grant you Pretty, yet art Vicious,  
Vain Impudent, and Meretricious;  
An over-glazing Superficies.   

A Specious Treasure you set forth,  
But have not any real Worth.  
Were all your Jewels Oriental,  
You might enrich one who had spent all;  
And be no longer counted Trash,  
But be at Par with Plate and Cash.  
Might pierce a Man unto the Quick,  
Did you not over- patch and lick.  
But now thy Artifice is seen,  
Now thou hast got a graceless Mien.  
Thy Primitive Simplicity  
Hath utterly forsaken thee.  
Thou strutt'st about in gaudy Dresses,  
Foplings to lure to thy Caresses;  
But all thy Pomp and Pageantry,  
The Wiser sort of Men defy;  
They know thy Glories quickly tarnish,  
Of fading Colours made, and Varnish:  
Yet thou dost keep thyself in Fashion,  
And hast but too much Veneration.  
Pity it is a Jilt so great,  
Should ever ride in Coach of State;  
And in a Palace dwell, or Church,  
Who leaves her Followers in the lurch.   

On Signpost in the open Air  
Hang her, in form of Bull, or Bear,  
Of some good use she may be there.   

But see that BRUIN wear a Chain,  
Lest (as of old) when it does Rain,  
The awkward Brute go off again.   

Now some, who by fair Looks are smitten,  
Tho' by their falsehood, often bitten,  
Will cry, This Censure is too smart;  
Paintings a Brave and Liberal Art.  
Liberal! Pray let themselves be Judges,  
Are not its chief Disciples Drudges?  
Their Bodies much impaired by Toils,  
And stinking Scent of Poisonous Oils:  
Their Minds oft overcharged with Care,  
About the drawing of a Hair;  
And value more a Hand that's ready,  
Than any Head, tho' Learned and Steady.  
Others there are who ne'er were Scholars,  
Nor can pretend to Skill in Colours,  
Yet are per saltum Masters grown,  
And with their Works defile the Town:  
Dawbings, which they by Dozen vend;  
Dawbings, of which there is no end.  
Of these Base-brothers of the Brush,  
A Dozen are not worth a Rush.  
A Pencil does not (as you know well)  
So well become them, as would Trowel.  
Such do the very Art bespatter,  
And Wound it more than sharpest satire.   

As Mean, as Cheap it does appear,  
Vending its Works by Auctionier:  
Who cries, This Head is by Vandyke;  
Here is a Battle (Sirs) by Wyke.  
This Piece, (pray see't) 'Tis somewhat small,  
But yet a right Original.  
Here's a choice Venus drawn on Board;  
Bid up,— 'tis fine upon my Word.   

This History's by Rubens done,  
(Of Ruben's Works, though he has none)  
Twenty pound; Once— Twice— Thrice— 'Tis gone.)   

A Modern Piece sometimes is sold,  
When Smoked and Mellowed, for an Old.  
Besides, it has Setters to entice,  
And if need be, to raise the Price.  
Thus, whilst it does each Piece expose,  
It leads its Bayers by the Nose.  
This Practice sure is not the part  
Of Lib'ral, but of Vulgar Art.  
Yet to avoid the Name severe,  
What can be farther said let's hear.   

'Tis a great Curiosity:  
So is a Spider's Web, you see.  
It speaks all Languages, all Tongues:  
The more diffusive are its Wrongs.  
It does amuse and entertain—  
The Idle, Wanton, Proud, and Vain.  
Strange Novelties it oft produces;  
Harpies and Centaurs! Strange Abuses!  
A Mine it is most richly Veined:  
'Twas so, but now 'tis almost drained.  
It can deceive a Skilful Eye:  
With a poor 
* 〈◊〉  Curtain or a 
† 〈◊〉 Roman●.  Fly.  
But not to give ourselves more trouble,  
About an empty Painted Bubble,  
About a thing that to the brim  
Abounds in Magottry and Whim;  
The Dream of Men that are awake,  
A Libertine, a very Rake;  
A Prodigy of Ostentation,  
Nay, th' arrantest Prostitute i'th' Nation.  
And what's enough to stifle Lenity,  
A great Supporter of Obscenity.  
One, who to mend Defects in Nature  
Pretends, but still deforms the Creature.  
Pretends to a discerning ,  
Yet only feeds on Sauce and Salad.  
Does so admire a Picture fair,  
As if nought with it could compare;  
When Well Penned Works of those that Writ  
Are Paintings too, in Black and White;  
And full as long they will endure;  
As any other Clare-Obscure.   

Another fault it has got of late,  
It Gouty things still reckons great:  
Thinks That the best and noblest Figure,  
The larger always is and bigger.  
But this Mistake we little heed,  
Therefore to greater Faults proceed.   

Its Heads and Faces need Correction,  
And must not scape our just Reflection:  
After the use of fine Carnations,  
And after three long Operations,  
The Life's oft lost, or so diminished,  
You'd swear the Piece were scarce half finished;  
And so unlike the Natural, Phyz 'tis,  
It can't be termed a true Effigies:  
Yet what it wants o'th' Mystery,  
With Trick and Fucus does supply.  
The Sad, the Sour, and Crabbed Feature;  
It nicely touches, and makes sweeter.  
The Matron of Complexion torrid  
Is likewise flattered, and made florid.  
What tho' the Sitter be no Beau,  
Our Face-mender will have him so;  
And make a Scurvy Head look big,  
In Steenkirk, and in Flaunting Wig.  
If Beautiful above what's common,  
It will transform him to a Woman;  
And out of great Civility,  
Rob him of his Virility;  
Knowing no Beauty but the Fine,  
None that is Strong and Masculine.  
Hence 'tis each Face is made too light,  
And an huge Waste oft drawn in White:  
No Black nor Darkness must appear,  
though't be to Shadow Grief or Fear;   

But in the Hair, Eyes, Lips, and Nails  
Resplendent Parts, where White prevails,  
Of such Profuseness there it fails.   

If here it fails, we can't expect,  
In Motion, it should be Correct.  
Motion's the quick and active part,  
The Soul and Spirit of the Art;  
It has the force of Sympathy,  
From which but very few are free.  
Does th' Object Laugh? it moves to Gladness,  
Or does it Mourn, it causes Sadness.  
When Modern Works do (by the by)  
Move and affect quite contrary.  
'Twould put a Man into a Flame,  
To see its Figures look so tame,  
To see it give to subtlety,  
The Hog's most dull and sleepy Eye.  
If its Intention, or its will is,  
To Paint a Nero or Achilles,  
'Tis odds but that it will set out  
The Hero Cruel, Tyrant Stout.  
Tho this looks somewhat like Disgrace,  
It will not mend its wont pace,  
But jogs on in the common Road,  
With Trappings, and but little Load:  
'Thas no regard to Life and Passion,  
A Motist now is out of fashion;  
Or acts but in a low degree,  
In Boor-Pieces or Drollery.  
In Shadowing of Nudities,  
(Which often are but Crudities)  
Affects a Manner of its own,  
To Nature such as seldom known;  
An Over-ruddy, Black and Grey,  
And this is called the Italian Way:  
An ancient Fault, yet we'll not spare you,  
Tho 'tis cum Patribus errare.  
If that it shuns one evil Course,  
Runs commonly into a worse.  
If it from Coldness does retire,  
Is apt to Blaze with too much Fire.  
When nauseous Hardness it declines,  
With Faintness Languishes and Pines.  
When it Correctness does intent,  
Of Emendation knows no end.  
Thus over-careful how to please,  
Does err as did Protogenes.  
Between Comb and Glass much time does waste,  
And knows not when 'tis fully dressed;  
Or else regardless is of Fame,  
And maketh Riches its chief aim:  
An Aequipoize or golden Mean  
Is difficult, and rarely seen.   

As to its Dress and Garniture,  
Who can its Luxury endure?  
Have you not a fair Lady seen,  
Bedecked with Pearl, like any Queen;  
Yet utterly devoid of Grace,  
Because the Gems outshined her Face?  
So now its By-works do excel,  
And much eclipse the Principal.  
Besides, 'tis of an abject Mind,  
To mean and narrow thoughts confined,  
That never strives for to advance,  
And be the foremost of the Dance;  
But lays aside all Emulation,  
Content with servile Imitation;  
Like little Child afraid of falls,  
Oft Creeps on Ground, or goes by Walls;  
Treading as tenderly and nice,  
As if it walked upon the Ice.   

But far more wary 'tis than wise,  
If falls, it fears 'twill never rise,  
Without contending there's no Prize.   

Nay more, some practice but a part,  
And will not search the whole o'th' Art.  
They do consume their precious hours,  
In Painting barely Fruits or Flowers.   

Sea-Pieces, Still-Life, Fish, or Fowl;  
Shall Men of such degenerate Soul  
Be Painters deemed, without control?   

No; only he who's apt for all,  
Must have a Talon general.   

No more than of this grovelling Practice,  
But somewhat, which no less defect is;  
On Colouring next we'll cast an Eye,  
And many Artless Teints descry.  
What are its several kinds of Pigments,  
With which it does express its Figments?  
The Lily, Cowssip, Saffron, Violet  
And 
* Damask.  Rose (of Blue that has an Eyelet)  
Ash, Azure, Purple, Columbine,  
Green, Crimson, Murry, Gridelin,  
The Strawberry, the Brown, the Bay,  
Dun, Sorrel, Chesnut, and the Grey;  
The Kite Colour, and 
* Col●r mortui foli●.  Philamot,  
The Tawny; Minim, and what not.  
Mixtures of late so ill compounded,  
That they are rather quite confounded.  
Yet their Ingredients are but few,  
Black, White, Red, Yellow and the Blue:  
Of which, some burnt are, some are raw,  
Some costly, some not worth a Straw;  
Some coming forward, some retiring,  
Some heavy, some light and aspiring;  
Some Lovers of Society,  
Some will not Mix wi' Company,  
Some transparent, some Opaque,  
With which it does great pother make.  
Some of them bad, and some are good,  
And all as thoroughly understood,  
As Transmutation is of Metals;  
Or turning into Gold, Brass Kettles.  
There are but few we can exalt,  
Most being spoiled by Grease or Salt,  
Or by foul Pencils gather Soil,  
Or Tawny made with too much Oil.  
They very rarely do appear,  
Lively, Bright, Beautiful and Clear,  
Except in Infects, Gems, Shells, Flowers;  
In Nature's Paintings, not in Ours;   

They at the best unequal are,  
The following therefore most prefer,  
But in the use of them do err.   

Some do affect the Tyrian Dye,  
Which they through fondness misapply;  
Clothing the Villain and the Varlet,  
With Royal Purple, Richest Scarlet.  
Others are fond of, and go still on,  
To use in Faces much Vermilion▪  
Their Works abound with this fierce Teint,  
Which makes them look too much like PAINT:  
Vltramarine with some prevails,  
This is true Blue which never fails;  
Yet many are with this too bold,  
And make their Flesh-colour too cold.  
Taking the Art (such is their blindness)  
Chief to lie in Colour's fineness:  
When as in truth it most doth lie,  
In finest Skill and Manag'ry.  
But willing now to make an end,  
To Shorthand Painting we descend.   

It's Migniature is over- fine,  
Too Nice, Petite, and Feminine.  
Is not Discernible at Distance,  
Without the Eye have some Assistance.  
The Women therefore do engross it,  
As Toy most fit for Lady's Closet:  
For Men's use only serves to adorn,  
Snuff and Tobacco-Box of Horn.  
But t' Olivar's or Cooper's Hand,  
We must not give so foul a Brand.  
Therefore to th' old we'll add not new ills,  
Owning such Works, not Toys but Jewels.  
Like Jewels very rich and fair,  
But yet exceedingly more rare.  
Many Faults more we could recite,  
And set it in a clearer Light.  
Can show how dull and blockish 'tis,  
Committing gross Absurdities;  
How Images impure, or vain,  
Most Sacred Places oft profane:  
And turn the Church (Sans Raillery)  
Into a Picture-Gallerie.   

That as incongruous as this,  
Is Angelo's famed Judgment-Piece,  
Stained with Indecent Nudities;   

With things unnatural and Unjust,  
Young Men and Women too Robust;  
And stretched beyond their due Proportions,  
With too extravagant Contortions.  
But there is nothing without failing:  
Good Caution against farther Railing.   

Now, had this Rage unfeigned been,  
Th' effect of Choler or of Spleen,  
The Doggr'el Cant had proved more keen;   

For Painting now we may enrol,  
In Pancirollus List or Scroll,  
Among the lost Inventions,  
Of the Sagacious Ancients.  
'Tis Vanished,— what is left in Sight,  
Is but the Shadow of their Light.   
FINIS.