Classic Poem

I'm told, and I believe the story,
That a fam'd Queen of Northern brutes,
A Gentlewoman of prodigious glory,
Whom every sort of epithet well suits;
Whose husband dear, just happening to provoke her,
Was shoved to Heaven upon a red-hot poker;
Sent to a certain King, not King of France,
Desiring by Sir Joshua's hand his Phiz. —
What did the Royal Quiz?
Why, damn'd genteely, sat to Mister Dance!
Then sent it to the Northern Queen,
As sweet a bit of wood as e'er was seen;
And therefore most unlike the princely Head;
He might as well have sent a pig of lead.

Down every throat the piece was cramm'd
As done by Reynolds, and deservedly damn'd;
For as to Master Dance's Art,
It ne'er was worth a single — —
Reader, I blush; am delicate this time:
So let thy impudence supply the rhyme.

Thank God that Monarchs cannot Taste control,
And make each Subject's poor submissive soul
Admire the work that judgement oft cries fie on:
Had things been so, poor Reynolds we had seen
Painting a Barber's Pole, an Ale-house Queen,
The Cat and Gridiron , or the Old Red Lion :
At Plympton perhaps, for some grave Doctor Slop,
Painting the pots and bottles of the shop;
Or in the Drama, to get meat to munch,
His brush divine had pictured scenes for Punch:
Whilst West was whelping, 'midst his paints,
Moses and Aaron, and all sorts of Saints;
Adams and Eves, and Snakes and Apples,
And Devils for beautifying certain Chapels.
But Reynolds is no favourite, that's the matter;
He has not learnt the noble art, to flatter.

Thrice-happy times, when Monarchs find them hard things,
To teach us what to view with admiration;
And, like their heads on halfpence and brass farthings,
Make their opinions current through the nation!

I've heard that Ramsay, when he died,
Left just nine rooms well stuff'd with Queens and Kings;
From whence all nations might have been supplied,
That long'd for valuable things.
Viceroys, Ambassadors, and Plenipos,
Bought them to join their raree-shows
In foreign parts,
And show the progress of the British Arts.

Whether they purchas'd by the pound or yard,
I cannot tell, because I never heard;
But this I know, his shop was like a fair,
And dealt most largely in this Royal ware.
See what it is to gain a Monarch's smile; —
And hast thou miss'd it, Reynolds, all this while?
How stupid! prithee, seek the Courtier's school,
And learn to manufacture oil of fool.

Flattery's the turnpike-road to Fortune's door:
Truth is a narrow lane, all full of quags,
Leading to broken heads, abuse, and rags,
And workhouses, sad refuge for the poor!

Flattery's a Mountebank so spruce, gets riches;
Truth, a plain Simon Pure, a Quaker preacher,
A moral-mender, a disgusting teacher,
That never got a sixpence by her speeches. PETER challengeth Courtiers to equal his Intrepidity, and proveth his Superiority of Courage by giving a delectable Tale of Dumplings.

What modern Courtier, pray, hath got the face
To say to Majesty, " O King!
At such a time, in such a place,
You did a very foolish thing?"
What Courtier, not a foe to his own glory,
Would publish of his King this simple Story? —