The painter having so long vexed his cloth,
Of his hound's mouth to feign the raging froth,
His desperate pencil at the work did dart ;
His anger reached that rage which passed-
his art ;
Chance finished that, which art could not begin,.
Of his hound's mouth to feign the raging froth,
His desperate pencil at the work did dart ;
His anger reached that rage which passed-
his art ;
Chance finished that, which art could not begin,.
Marvell - Poems
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208 THE POEMS
INSTRUCTIONS TO A PAINTER, ABOUT
THE DUTCH WARS, 16C7.
After two sittings,* now our Lady State,
To end her picture, does the third time wait ;
But ere thou fallest to work, first, Painter, see,
Is it too slight grown or too hard for thee ?
Canst thou paint without colours ? Then 'tis right :
For so we too without a fleet can fight.
Or canst thou daub a sign -post, and that ill ?
'Twill suit our great debauch, and little skill.
Or hast thou marked how antic masters limn
The alley-roof with snuff of candle dim.
Sketching in shady smoke prodigious tools ?
'Twill serve this race of drunkards, pimps, and
fools.
But if to match our crimes thy skill presumes,
As the Indians draw our luxury in plumes.
Or if to score out our compendious fame.
With Hooke then through your microscope take
aim,
♦ See Waller's, and Denham*? , poems.
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OP MARVELL. 209
Where like the new comptroller all men laugh^
To see a tall louse brandish a white staff,
Else shall thou ofl thy guiltless pencil curse,
Stamp on thy pallet, not perhaps the worse.
The painter having so long vexed his cloth,
Of his hound's mouth to feign the raging froth,
His desperate pencil at the work did dart ;
His anger reached that rage which passed-
his art ;
Chance finished that, which art could not begin,.
And he sat smiting as his dog did grin.
So mayest thou perfect by a lucky blow,
What all thy soflest touches cannot do.
Paint then St. Alban's full of soup and gold,.
The new court's pattern, stallion of the old,
Him neither wit nor courage did exalt,
But Fortune chose him for her pleasure's salt.
Paint him with drayman's shoulders, butcher's
mien,
Membered like mule, with elephantine chin.
Well he the title of St. Alban's bore.
For never Bacon studied nature more ;
But age, allaying now that youthful heat,
Fits him in France to play at cards, and cheat;
Draw no commission, lest the court should lie.
And, disavowing treaty, ask supply.
He needs no seal but to St. James's lease.
Whose breeches were the instruments of peace ;
14
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^0 THE POEMS
Who, if the French dispute his power, from
thence
Can straight produce them a plenipotence.
Nor fears he the Most Christian should trepan
Two saints at once, St German and Alban ;
But thought the golden age was now restored.
When men and women took each other's word.
