I bore with philosophic nerve,
Nay, gladly bore; for, here observe,
’Twas that which gave to them offense,
Did constitute my excellence.
I see, my Lord, at this you stare: 
Yet thus I’ll prove it to a hair.—­
As Mind and Body are distinct,
Though long in social union link’d,
And as the only power they boast,
Is merely at each other’s cost;
If both should hold an equal station,
They’d both be kings without a nation: 
If therefore, one would paint the Mind
In partnership with Body join’d,
And give to each an equal place,
With each an equal truth and grace,
’Tis clear the picture could not fail
To be without or head or tail. 
And therefore as the Mind alone
I chose should fill my graphick throne,
To fix her pow’r beyond dispute,
I trampled Body under foot: 
That is, in more prosaick dress,
As I the passions would express,
And as they ne’er could be portray’d
Without the subject Body’s aid,
I show’d no more of that than merely
Sufficed to represent them clearly: 
As thus—­by simple means and pure
Of light and shadow, and contour: 
But since what mortals call complexion,
Has with the mind no more connexion
Than ethicks with a country dance,
I left my col’ring all to chance;
Which oft (as I may proudly state)
With Nature war’d at such a rate,
As left no mortal hue or stain
Of base, corrupting flesh, to chain
The Soul to Earth; but, free as light,
E’en let her soar till out of sight.

Thus spake the champion bold of mind;
And thus the Colourist rejoin’d: 
In truth, my Lord, I apprehend,
If I by words with him contend,
My case is gone; far he, by gift
Of what is call’d the gab, can shift
The right for wrong, with such a sleight,
That right seems wrong and wrong the right;
Nay, by his twisting logick make
A square the form of circle take. 
I therefore, with submission meet,
In justice do your Grace intreat
To let awhile your judgment pause,
That works not words may plead our cause. 
Let Merc’ry then to Earth repair,
The works of both survey with care,
And hither bring the best of each,
And save us further waste of speech.

Such fair demand, the Judge replied,
Could not with justice be denied. 
Good Merc’ry, hence!  I fly, my Lord,
The Courier said.  And, at the word,
High-bounding, wings his airy flight
So swift his form eludes the sight;
Nor aught is seen his course to mark,
Save when athwart the region dark
His brazen helm is spied afar,
Bright-trailing like a falling star.