HIGH ART.
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Most of your number claim some feature here,Some act or gesture, woven with my toil.You, Madam, seize upon the hair and browSo golden-placid in this pardoning Saint—They 're yours indeed, but here the likeness ends.Your eyes, you see, were not the spirit sort,Your mouth, a pursed conventionality;More than one weary morning's work it tookTo help what was forgotten in your making.That Matron, so familiar to our ken,Who loves her scandal raw as English beef,And, so she gets her pound of shivering flesh,Is little careful how she comes by it;You 'll know her, by her slab and jaunty air,Her spiteful feathers, and her glossy back;But aught so worthless as her countenanceArt does not keep, so that is turned elsewhere.
You, addle-pate with diamonds in your gift;—You, not of God, but Babbage, clever thingTo calculate, and add, and multiply,—And you, poor Wagling, striking baldly nowAt follies you have supped on, in your time,I've shadowed with an artist's charity,But you, stage-villain of some tragedy
