text:  "Whilst the weak artist to thy whims a slave Would bury all those pow'rs which Nature gave; Would suffer black concealment to obscure Those rays thy jealousy could not endure; To feed thy vanity would rust unknown And to secure thy credit blast his own In Hogarth he was sure to find a friend He could not fear and therefore might commend: But when his Spirit rous'd by honest shame Shook off that lethargy and soar'd to fame; When with the pride of man resolv'd and strong He scorn'd those fears which did his honour wrong And on himself determin'd to rely Brought forth his labours to the public eye No friend in thee could such a rebel know; He had desert and Hogarth was his foe