Classic Poem

Couplets sur un pretendu portrait de moi.

Little fanciful portrait, designed
To be placed in the front of my book,
Dost thou think the whole world is so kind
As to welcome thy quizzical look?
If thou darest, the bays thou canst don —
Modest bays — not too thick — they may be:
Or a chaplet of roses put on —
No, thou art not a portrait of me!

For my likeness I never would sit;
Then for whom thou art meant, come, explain —
Canst thou be but some hypocrite, fit
Even Virtue's attractions to feign?
Petty saint, full of tricks — the devout
At Mont Rouge before such bend the knee —
What a sign for my Muse to hang out! —
No, thou art not a portrait of me!

Or, perchance, thou dost tragedy write,
Reckoned, rhymed, polished up with due pain,
In whose parts, academical quite,
All the fire of a Talma were vain?
What! can my common drinking songs claim
Noble image like this that I see?
On all stately heroics 't were shame —
No, thou art not a portrait of me!

With conceit is thy countenance fraught:
Have we here but the Licenser's frown —
That exciseman who confiscates thought,
At his will, to the use of the crown?
In my pack I've prohibited stuff,
That the barrier could not pass free:
But thy phiz for a stamp were enough —
No, thou art not a portrait of me!

If this fright were like me in the least,
By thy glory not much would be earned —
Stand in awe, lest some sanctified priest
In his zeal have thee publicly burned!
In the future I trust I may live,
Though the present dispenses with thee;
What I pen my best likeness will give —
No, thou art not a portrait of me!