In Rome there dwelt, in days of yore, A painter deep in graphic lore. His touch was firm, his outline true, And every rule full well he knew. A Mars he painted, meant to show How far his learned skill could go. The work complete, he call'd a friend, On whose good taste he could depend. The friend was honest, spoke his thought, And fairly pointed out the fault, "That overwork'd in every part, It show'd too much laborious art." The painter argued for his rules, And cited maxims from the schools; Still the judicious critic held The labor should be more conceal'd. While they disputed on his stricture, A coxcomb came to see the picture: Entering, he cries, "Good heavens, how fine! The piece, I swear, is quite divine! The sword, the knot, the belt, the leather, The steel, the gold, the silk, the feather, Are perfect nature, all together!" The painter, reddening with despite, Whispers, "My friend, by Jove, you're right. 'Tis not enough our art to know, Till less of it we learn to show; My picture must be done again I see, to please discerning men."