An Athens' painter, known of old,
Who valu'd fame much more than gold;
With close attention, time, and care,
Had drawn, at large, the god of war; ...
Once to a connoisseur apply'd,
(The while his bosom swell'd with pride,)
And begg'd, the favourite picture shown,
That his opinion might be known.

The connoisseur, an honest heart,
Would only what he thought impart;
After a little nice inspection,
Enlarg'd with judgment each defect on.
The painter now grew somewhat warm,
(For this had given self-love th' alarm;)
Treated whate'er he said as fiction,
And steel'd his heart against conviction.

Just at this time, a coxcomb ass,
Who for a man of taste would pass;
(Hundreds of such you daily meet
In Bond, and in St. James's-street,)
Call'd for a moment on our painter,
But ere the ape had time to enter...
Thus he exclaim'd with pompous air,...
" Gods! what a master-piece is here;
" Mars breathes in every stroke, I swear;
" Flames in each light, the brush has made,
" And terrifies in every shade! "

The artist now with soften'd eye,
Thus made the connoisseur reply . . . .
" Convinc'd, your judgment I approve,
" And much your sense and frankness love. "

MORAL .

When real judges cannot praise,
Your works will hardly 'scape the blaze;
But if a blockhead should admire,
You then must throw them in the fire.