Classic Poem

Good sirs, be civil, can one man, d'ye think,
As fast lay colors as you all spill ink?
At what a pass am I! A thousand hands
I need, if I must be at all commands.
Thy sparkling fancy, Waller, first designed
A stately piece, true picture of thy mind.
But (how conceits engender!) on thy wit
Each scribbler new Advices doth beget;
And so the breed's embased, that now 'tis grown
Like royal blood when mixed with the clown.
'Twas racy wine ran from thy loyal quill,
But these their brandy from its dregs distill,
Or, like false vintners, they adulterate
Thy nectar with a poisonous sublimate.
Without thy muse thy fancy they purloin,
And bastard scions to thy stock they join.
Thus in dead bodies Satan acts a soul,
And Virgil's self's travestied to a droll.
I shall forswear my art if I must be
Thus schooled by bunglers, whilst I paint for thee;
Or if I must each new adviser please,
Jumble our world with the Antipodes,
And mix the firmament and Stygian lake,
A chaos, not a picture, I shall make.
And then (as he that marred a noble draught
By alt'ring it as each spectator taught)
I shall forswear the piece, too, and write by:
This monster my advisers made, not I.
However, sirs, my colors will not do,
And therefore I must be supplied by you.
I have no mixtures to paint Treason's face
So fair, for Loyalty to make it pass,
None that will blemish princes on report,
Which none dares own, to make the rabble sport.
Besides, Slander's a fading color: though
It stick a while, it will not long do so.
If I make use of that, this I shall have,
When it decays, my work will prove me knave.
Yea princes, sirs, are gods, as they're above,
Though as men in a mortal sphere they move.
As gods, 'tis sacrilegious to present
Them in such shapes as may bespeak contempt,
And who allows 'em men does therewithdal
Allow 'em possibility to fall.
Yet paint not their infirmities. Would you
In each foul posture be exposed to view?
Baulk not the noble rule and let them have
The charity, at least, that you would crave.
My colors will not alter forms of state
After the whimsies of each crowing pate.
What paint will draw utopias, or where
Shall the groundwork be for castles in the air?
What colors wears the man i' the moon? Who can
Limn an Oceana or Leviathan?
Rob the chameleon, sirs, or polypus
For colors, if you mean t'employ me thus.
Fie, at the old play still! What have we got
By Rotas, ballots, and I know not what?
Who cheats me once, he fools me, but 'tis plain
I fool myself to deal with him again.
Bought wit is best, 'tis said, but who buys oft
Shall never sell it at the rates he bought.
Cast up your books, sirs, and I dare engage
Creditor's falls short of the debtor's page.
Unhinge not governments except you could
Supply us better ere you change the old.
You would have all amended. So would I,
Yet not deface each piece where faults I spy.
'Tis true I could find colors to expose
Faulty grandees and over-paint a rose,
But this checks me, that whatsoe'er is aimed,
Few such are mended by being proclaimed.
Public disgrace oft smaller sinners scares,
But vice with greatness armed no colors fears.
Besides, the rout grows insolent hereby,
And slights the once disgraced authority,
Whence, to paint all our betters' faults would be
To hang up order in effigie.
Leave such, then, to their masters and the laws;
Who play with lions at last feel their paws.
But one word more, sirs: grant I yield to you,
Am I secure I have no more to do?
If thus Advices spawn, your three or four
May shortly propagate to half a score,
And those, by hundreds multiplied, may make
A task Briareus would not undertake,
Besides the clash--"Dash out that line!" says one;
Another, "Alter this, let that alone!"
So Babel's builders marred their tow'r and made
An heap unlike the project that they laid.
Pray leave advising then, for (never crave it)
No art can paint a world as all would have it,
Or, if you're set upon't, to fit your mind,
I'll tell you where a painter you may find.
Look out some canvas-stainer, whose cheap skill
With rhythms and stories alehouse-walls doth fill.
Such men will do your work best--sorry elves--
They paint all kings and princes like themselves.
So, with jack-wheels upon their heads, they slander
Arthur and Godfrey and great Alexander.
Here David stands with's harp of whipcord-strings,
And Solomon's wives who, sure, loved no such things,
Yea, Ahab and Queen Jezebel, who ne'er
Painted herself as she is painted there.
Thus th' Royal Oak in country signs is found
In a park copied from the neighbor pound,
And royal Charles's head looks peeping through,
Much in the posture that's the dauber's due.
Employ these, then, not me, except you please
To use my art on your own visages.
Those I know who would thank me for 't, and then
Your faces might be famous as your pen.
And, lastly, that done, three large dashes by
I doubt would serve to paint your destiny.