TO David Polhill Esq

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 WILLIAM'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 Squadrons 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 describe . 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 .