Son, and my friend, I had not called you so To me; or been the same to you; if show, Profit, or chance had made us: but I know What, by that name, we each to other owe, Freedom, and truth; with love from those begot: Wise crafts, on which the flatterer ventures not. His is more safe commodity, or none: Nor dares he come in the comparison. But as the wretched painter, who so ill Painted a dog, that now his subtler skill Was, t'have a boy stand with a club, and fright All live dogs from the lane, and his shop's sight, Till he had sold his piece, drawn so unlike: So doth the flatterer, with far cunning strike At a friend's freedom, proves all circling means To keep him off; and howsoe'er he gleans Some of his forms, he lets him not come near Where he would fix, for the distinction's fear. For as at distance, few have faculty To judge; so all men coming near can spy, Though now of flattery, as of picture are More subtle works, and finer pieces far, Than knew the former ages: yet to life, All is but web, and painting; be the strife Never so great to get them: and the ends, Rather to boast rich hangings, than rare friends. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ASTROPHEL AND STELLA: 25 by PHILIP SIDNEY LET US HAVE PEACE by NANCY BYRD TURNER IN THE BELFRY OF THE NIEUWE KERK by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH VILLANELLE: AU RETOUR DU PRINTEMPS by PHILIP SCHUYLER ALLEN FOUR SONNETS: 1 by FRANK DAVIS ASHBURN LINES ON THE DEATH OF PHILIP MEADOWS by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD EARTH TO EARTH by KATHERINE HARRIS BRADLEY BALLAD. TO THE TUNE OF 'SALLY IN OUR ALLEY' by GEORGE GORDON BYRON |