Lest captious men suspect your story,
Speak modestly its history.
The traveller, who overleaps the bounds
Of probability, confounds;
But though men hear your deeds with phlegm,
You may with flattery cram them.
Hyperboles, though ne'er so great,
Will yet come short of self-conceit.
A painter drew his portraits truly,
And marked complexion and mien duly;--
Really a fellow knew the picture,
There was nor flattery nor delicture.
The eyes, and mouth, and faulty nose,
Were all showed up in grim repose;
He marked the dates of youth and age--
But so he lost his clientage:
The which determined to recover,
He turned in mind the matter over.
He bought a pair of busts--one, Venus,
The other was Apollo Phoebus;
Above his subject client placed them,
And for the faulty features traced them.
Chatted the while of Titian's tints,
Of Guido--Raphael--neither stints
To raise him to the empyrëal,
Whilst he is sketching his ideal.
He sketches, utters, "That will do:
Be pleased, my lord, to come and view."
"I thought my mouth a little wider."
"My lord, my lord, you me deride, ah!"
"Such _was_ my nose when I was young."
"My lord, you have a witty tongue."
"Ah well, ah well! you artists flatter."
"That were, my lord, no easy matter."
"Ah well, ah well! you artists see best."
"My lord, I only (_aside_) earn my fee best."
So with a lady--he, between us,
Borrowed the face and form of Venus.
There was no fear of its rejection--
Her lover voted it perfection.
So on he went to fame and glory,
And raised his price--which ends the story;--
But not the moral,--which, though fainter,
Bids one to scorn an honest painter.