TO
David
Polhill
Esq
AN
Answer
to
an
Infamous
SATYR
,
CALL'D
,
Advice
to
a
Painter
,
Written
chiefly
against
King
WILLIAM
III
.
Of
Glorious
Memory
.
1697.
PART
I.
AND
must
the
Hero
that
redeem'd
our
Land
Here
in
the
Front
of
Vice
and
Scandal
stand
?
The
Man
of
Wondrous
Soul
,
that
Scorn'd
his
Ease
Tempting
the
Winters
and
the
faithless
Seas
,
And
paid
an
Annual
Tribute
of
his
Life
To
guard
his
England
from
the
Irish
Knife
And
crush
the
French
Dragoon
?
Must
WIL
LIAM's
Name
That
brightest
Star
that
gilds
the
Wings
of
Fame
,
WILLIAM
the
Brave
,
the
Pious
,
and
the
Just
Adorn
these
gloomy
Scenes
of
Tyranny
and
Lust
?
POLHILL
,
my
Blood's
a
Fire
,
my
Spirits
flame
;
Vengeance
and
Darkness
on
the
Poets
Name
:
Why
smoak
the
Skies
not
?
Why
no
Thunders
roll
?
Nor
kindling
Lightnings
blast
his
guilty
Soul
?
Audacious
Wretch
!
to
stab
a
Monarch's
Fame
,
And
fire
his
Subjects
with
a
Rebel-Flame
,
To
call
the
Painter
to
his
Black
Designs
To
draw
our
Guardian's
Face
in
Hellish
Lines
:
Painter
beware
!
the
Monarch
can
be
shown
Under
no
Shape
but
Angels
or
his
own
,
GABRIEL
or
WILLIAM
on
the
Brittish
Throne
.
Oh
!
could
my
Thoughts
but
grasp
the
vast
Design
,
And
Words
with
Infinite
Ideas
joyn
,
I'de
rouse
Apelles
from
his
Iron
Sleep
,
And
bid
him
trace
the
Warriour
o're
the
Deep
:
Trace
him
Apelles
,
o're
the
Belgian
Plain
,
Fierce
,
how
he
climbs
the
Mountains
of
the
Slain
Scattering
Just
Vengeance
thro'
the
Red
Campaign
.
Then
dash
the
Canvas
with
a
flying
Stroke
Till
it
be
lost
in
Clouds
of
Fire
and
Smoak
,
And
say
,
'Twas
thus
the
Conqueror
thro'
the
Squa
drons
broke
.
Mark
him
again
emerging
from
the
Cloud
Far
from
his
Troops
;
there
like
a
Rock
he
stood
His
Countries
Single
Barrier
in
a
Sea
of
Blood
.
Calmly
he
leaves
the
Pleasures
of
a
Throne
,
And
his
MARIA
Weeping
;
whilst
alone
He
wards
the
Fate
of
Nations
,
and
provokes
his
own
:
But
Heav'n
secures
its
Champion
;
o're
the
Field
Paint
hov'ring
Angels
;
tho'
they
fly
conceal'd
,
Each
intercepts
a
Death
,
and
wears
it
on
his
Shield
.
Now
,
noble
Pencil
;
lead
him
to
our
Isle
,
Mark
how
the
Skies
with
Joyful
Lustre
smile
,
Then
imitate
the
Glory
;
on
the
Strand
Spread
half
the
Nation
longing
till
he
Land
.
Wash
off
the
Blood
,
and
take
a
peaceful
Teint
,
All
Red
the
Warriour
,
White
the
Ruler
paint
,
Abroad
a
Hero
,
and
at
Home
a
Saint
.
Throne
him
on
high
upon
a
shining
Seat
,
Lust
and
Prophaneness
dying
at
his
Feet
,
While
round
his
Head
the
Lawrel
and
the
Olive
meet
,
The
Crowns
of
War
and
Peace
;
and
may
they
blow
With
Flow'ry
Blessings
ever
on
his
Brow
.
At
his
right
Hand
pile
all
the
English
Laws
In
Sacred
Volumes
;
thence
the
Monarch
draws
His
Wise
and
Just
Commands
—
Rise
ye
Old
Sages
of
the
Brittish
Isle
,
On
the
fair
Tablet
cast
a
reverend
Smile
And
bless
the
Peice
;
these
Statutes
are
your
own
,
That
sway
the
Cottage
,
and
direct
the
Throne
;
People
and
Prince
are
one
in
WILLIAM's
Name
,
Their
Joys
,
their
Dangers
,
and
their
Laws
the
same
.
Let
Liberty
and
Right
with
Plumes
display'd
Clap
their
glad
Wings
around
their
Guardian's
Head
,
Religion
o're
the
rest
her
Starry
Pinions
spread
.
Religion
guards
him
;
round
the
Imperial
Queen
,
Place
waiting
Vertues
,
each
of
Heav'nly
Mien
;
Learn
their
bright
Air
,
and
paint
it
from
his
Eyes
,
The
Just
,
the
Bold
,
the
Temperate
,
and
the
Wise
Dwell
in
his
Looks
:
Majestick
,
but
Serene
;
Sweet
,
with
no
Fondness
;
Cheerful
,
but
not
Vain
:
Bright
without
Terror
;
Great
,
without
Disdain
.
His
Soul
inspires
us
what
his
Lips
command
,
And
spreads
his
brave
Example
thro'
the
Land
,
Not
so
the
former
Reigns
;
—
Bend
down
his
Ear
to
each
afflicted
Cry
,
Let
Beams
of
Grace
dart
gently
from
his
Eye
;
But
the
bright
Treasures
of
his
Sacred
Breast
Are
too
Divine
,
too
Vast
to
be
exprest
,
Colours
must
fail
where
Words
and
Numbers
faint
,
And
leave
the
Hero's
Heart
for
Thought
alone
to
paint
.
PART
II
.
NOW
Muse
,
pursue
the
Satyrist
again
,
Wipe
off
the
Blotts
of
his
Invenom'd
Pen
;
Hark
,
how
he
bids
the
Servile
Painter
draw
In
monstrous
Shapes
the
Patrons
of
our
Law
;
At
one
slight
Dash
he
cancels
every
Name
From
the
white
Rolls
of
Honesty
and
Fame
:
This
Scribbling
Wretch
marks
all
he
meets
for
Knave
,
Shoots
sudden
Bolts
promiscuous
at
the
Base
and
Brave
,
And
with
unpardonable
Malice
sheds
Poison
and
Spite
on
undistinguish'd
Heads
.
Painter
,
forbear
;
or
if
thy
bolder
Hand
Dares
to
attempt
the
Villains
of
the
Land
,
Draw
first
this
Poet
,
like
some
baleful
Star
With
silent
Influence
shedding
Civil
War
;
Or
Factious
Trumpeter
,
whose
Magick
Sound
Calls
off
the
Subjects
to
the
Hostile
Ground
,
And
scatters
Hellish
Feuds
the
Nation
Round
.
These
are
the
Imps
of
Hell
,
that
cursed
Tribe
That
first
create
the
Plague
,
and
then
the
Pain
de
scribe
.
Draw
next
above
,
the
Great
Ones
of
our
Isle
,
Still
from
the
Good
distinguishing
the
Vile
;
Seat
'em
in
Pomp
,
in
Grandeur
,
and
Command
,
Feeling
the
Subjects
with
a
greedy
Hand
:
Paint
forth
the
Knaves
that
have
the
Nation
sold
,
And
tinge
their
greedy
Looks
with
sordid
Gold
.
Mark
what
a
selfish
Faction
undermines
The
Pious
Monarch's
generous
Designs
,
Spoil
their
own
Native
Land
as
Vipers
do
,
Vipers
that
tear
their
Mothers
Bowels
thro'
.
Let
great
NASSAW
beneath
a
careful
Crown
Mournful
in
Majesty
,
look
gently
down
,
Mingling
soft
Pity
with
an
Awful
Frown
:
He
grieves
to
see
how
long
in
vain
he
strove
To
make
us
blest
,
how
vain
his
Labours
prove
To
save
the
stubborn
Land
he
condescends
to
Love
.