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Just what his gracious masters please to take ;
Again. Thou say’st
Jacob, thou can’st but make a monster of him,
The last charge he lives
And there ! that breeze
The PIOUS PAINTER.
The story of the Pious Painter is related in the Pia Hilaria of Gazæus, but the Catholic Poet has omitted the conclusion. This is to be found in the Fabliaux of Le Grand.
THE FIRST PART.
There once was a Painter in Catholic days,
Like Job who eschewed all evil. Still on his Madonnas the curious may gaze With applause and with pleasure, but chiefly his praise
And delight was in painting the Devil.
They were Angels, compared to the Devils he drew,
Who besieged poor St. Anthony's cell; Such burning hot eyes, such a damnable hue ! You could even smell brimstone their breath was so blue,
He painted the Devil so well.
And now had the Artist a picture begun,
'Twas over the Virgin's church door ; She stood on the Dragon embracing her Son, Many Devils already the Artist had done;
But this must out-do all before.
The Old Dragon's imps as they fled thro' the air
At seeing it paus'd on the wing, For he had the likeness so just to a hair, That they came as Apollyon himself had been there,
To pay their respects to their King.
Every child at beholding it shivered with dread
And scream'd as he turn'd away quick. Not an old Woman saw it, but raising her head, Dropt a bead, made a cross on her wrinkles, and said,
God keep me from ugly Old Nick !
What the Painter so earnestly thought on by day,
He sometimes would dream of by night;' But once he was startled as sleeping he lay, 'Twas no fancy, no dream, he could plainly survey
That the Devil himself was in sight.
You rascally dauber! old Beelzebub cries,
Take heed how you wrong me again !
Or see if I threaten in vain !
Now the Painter was bold and religious beside,
And on faith he had certain reliance.
And sturdily bade him defiance.
Betimes in the morning the Painter arose,
He is ready as soon as 'tis light. Every look, every line, every feature be knows, 'Tis fresh in his eye, to his labour he goes,
And he has the old Wicked One quite.
Happy man ! he is sure the resemblance can't fail,
The tip of the nose is red hot, There's his grin and his fangs, his skin cover'd with scale, And that the identical curl of his tail
Not a mark, not a claw is forgot.