his fire,

And paints the passions that your eyes inspire; Full of that flame, his tender scenes he warms, And frames his goddess by your matchless charms.

GRANVILLE.

His works become the frippery of wit.

BEN JONSON.

Authors are judged by strange capricious rules, The great ones are thought mad, the small ones fools;

Yet sure the best are most severely fated,
For fools are only laughed at,-wits are hated.
Blockheads with reason men of sense abhor;
But fool 'gainst fool is barb'rous civil war.
Why on all authors then should critics fall?
Since some have writ, and shown no wit at all.
POPE.

I sought no homage from the race that write;
I kept, like Asian monarchs, from their sight:
Poems I heeded, now berhymed so long,

Employ their pains to spurn some others down; And, while self-love each jealous writer rules, Contending wits become the sport of fools.

POPE.

Leave flattery to fulsome dedicators,
Whom, when they praise, the world believes

no more

Than when they promise to give scribbling o'er. POPE.

Authors alone, with more than savage rage, Unnat'ral war with brother authors wage.

РОРЕ.

No rag, no scrap, of all the beau or wit,
That once so flutter'd, and that once so writ.
РОРЕ.

Oft leaving what is natural and fit,
The current folly proves our ready wit;
And authors think their reputation safe,
Which lives as long as fools are pleased to laugh.
POPE.

With authors, stationers obey'd the call;

song.

For thee I dim these eyes and stuff this head With all such reading as was never read.

POPE.

A dire dilemma, either way I'm sped;
If foes they write, if friends they read, me dead.
POPE.

The dog-star rages; nay, 'tis past a doubt
All Bedlam or Parnassus is let out;
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
POPE.

Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door:
"Sir, let me see your works and you no more!"
POPE.

Who shames a scribbler? break one cobweb through,

He spins the slight self-pleasing thread anew.

РОРЕ.

He plunged for sense, but found no bottom there;
Then writ and flounder'd on in mere despair!
POPE.

Shall I in London act this idle part?
Composing songs for fools to get by heart.

POPE. Matchless his pen, victorious was his lance; Bold in the lists, and graceful in the dance.

POPE.

There he stopp'd short, nor since has writ a tittle,
But has the wit to make the most of little,
Like stunted hide-bound trees, that just have got
Sufficient sap at once to bear and rot.

POPE. Some the French writers, some our own despise; The ancients only or the moderns prize.

POPE.

The bard whom pilfer'd pastorals renown,
Who turns a Persian tale for half a crown,
Just writes to make his barrenness appear,
And strains from hard-bound brains eight lines

a year.

POPE.

'Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill
Appear in writing or in judging ill;
But of the two less dang'rous is th' offence
To tire our patience, than mislead our sense.
POPE.
For fame with toil we gain, but lose with ease,
Sure some to vex, but never all to please.

The privilege that ancient poets claim,
Now turn'd to license by too just a name.
ROSCOMMON.
None have been with admiration read,
But who, besides their learning, were well bred.
ROSCOMMON.

Make the proper use of each extreme,
And write with fury, but correct with phlegm.
ROSCOMMON.

Every busy little scribbler now
Swells with the praises which he gives himself,
And, taking sanctuary in the crowd,
Brags of his impudence, and scorns to mend.
ROSCOMMON.

Your author always will the best advise:
Fall when he falls, and when he rises, rise.
ROSCOMMON.

WALLER. So must the writer whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould. WALLER. Who but thyself the mind and ear can please, With strength and softness, energy and ease? WALLER.

An author! 'Tis a venerable name!
How few deserve it, and what numbers claim!
Unblest with sense above their peers refined,
Who shall stand up, dictators to mankind?
Nay, who dare shine, if not in virtue's cause,
That sole proprietor of just applause ?

Be thrifty, but not covetous; therefore give
Thy need, thine honour, and thy friend, his due:
Never was scraper brave man. Get to live;
Then live, and use it; else it is not true
That thou hast gotten: surely, use alone
Makes money not a contemptible stone.

GEORGE HERbert.

He turns with anxious heart and crippled hands
His bonds of debt and mortgages of lands;
Or views his coffers with suspicious eyes,
Unlocks his gold, and counts it till he dies.
DR. JOHNSON.

The love of gold, that meanest rage
And latest folly of man's sinking age,
Which, rarely venturing in the van of life,
While nobler passions wage their heated strife,
Comes skulking last, with selfishness and fear,
And dies collecting lumber in the rear.

MOORE. Thoughtful of gain, I all the live-long day Consume in meditation deep.

JOHN PHILIPS.

Is yellow dirt the passion of thy life? Look but on Gripus, or on Gripus' wife.

POPE.

'Tis strange the miser should his cares employ
To gain those riches he can ne'er enjoy;
Is it less strange the prodigal should waste
His wealth to purchase what he ne'er can taste?

POPE.

Who sees pale Mammon pine amidst his store,
Sees but a backward steward for the poor;
This year a reservoir, to keep and spare;
The next, a fountain spouting through his heir.
РОРЕ.

Benighted wanderers the forest o'er,
Curse the saved candle and unopening door;
While the gaunt mastiff, growling at the gate,
Affrights the beggar whom he longs to eat.

РОРЕ.

When Hopkins dies, a thousand lights attend The wretch who living saved a candle's end; Should'ring God's altar a vile image stands, Belies his features, nay, extends his hands.

POPE.

They meanly pilfer, as they bravely fought, Now save a nation, and now save a groat. POPE.