The Connoisseur

TO excel in Bon Ton both as Genius and Critic,
And be quite the thing, Sir, Immense Scientific;
On all exhibitions give sentence by guess,
With shrugs and stolen phrases that sentence express.
Sing tantararara Taste all.

The money you squander your judgement confirms,
You need not know Science, repeat but the terms.
The labour of Learning belongs to the poor,
Do but pay—that's enough for a True Connoisseur.

As to Shakespeare, or Purcell, why you may allow
They were well-enough once—but they will not do now.
Admit Newton's clever, just clever,—that's all;
And formerly, faith, we might fancy White-hall.

When Lord of the Feast, 'midst your Parasite Group,
You're the slave of Conceit, and low Forgery's dupe.
All artists (but English ones) praise and procure,
By your band of Bear-leaders you're dubb'd Connoisseur.

For Words, when you're lost, fill the blank with Grimace,
And Pantomime Scorn by your power of Face.
If Merit dares speak, and he's known to be poor,
Knock him down with a Bett, then your triumph's secure.

With high-varnish'd masters, and bronz'd bustos grac'd,
Your house, like a toy-shop, is lumber'd in Taste.
All, all are Antiques, Ciceroni procures,
For who dares deceive such compleat Connoisseurs?

The Worth of a man, say the Wise, is his Pence:
'Twas said so, and so it will centuries hence.
Then Money's the thing; the Grand Pimp that procures,
Full work for the Wits, when she forms Connoisseurs.
Sing tantararara Taste all.