Thefe equal fyllables alone require,
Though oft the ear the open vowels tire;
While expletives their feeble aid do join,
And ten low words oft creep in one dull line ;
While they ring round the fame unvary'd chimes,
With fure returns of ftill expected rhymes:
Where'er you find "the cooling western breeze,"
In the next line it "whispers through the trees :"
If crystal streams "with pleafing murmurs creep,"
The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with "fleep:❞
Then, at the laft and only couplet fraught
With fome unmeaning thing they call a thought,
A needlefs Alexandrine ends the fong,
That, like a wounded fnake, drags its flow length along.
Leave fuch to tune their own dull rhymes, and know What's roundly smooth, or languishingly flow;
And praise the easy vigour of a line,
Where Denham's ftrength and Waller's fweetness join.
True eafe in writing comes from art, not chance ;
As thofe move easiest who have learn'd to dance.
'Tis not enough nò harshness give offence,
The found muft feem an echo to the fense:
Soft is the ftrain when Zephyr gently blows,
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;
But when loud furges lafh the founding fhore,
The hoarfe rough verfe should like the torrent roar.
When Ajax ftrives fome rock's vast weight to throw,
The line too labours, and the words move flow:
Not fo when swift Camilla fcours the plain,
Flies o'er th'unbending corn, and fkims along the
SOME ne'er advance a judgment of their own, But catch the spreading notion of the town; They reafon and conclude by precedent,
And own ftale nonsense which they ne'er invent. Some judge of authors names, not works, and then
Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men.
Of all this fervile herd, the worft is he
That in proud dulnefs joins with quality;
A conftant Critic at the great man's board,
To fetch and carry nonfenfe for my Lord.
What woful stuff this madrigal would be
In fome starv'd hackney-fonneteer, or me!
But let a Lord once own the happy lines,
How the wit brightens! how the ftyle refines!
Before his facred name flies ev'ry fault,
And each exalted stanza teems with thought!
IBID. P. 90.
SUCCESSION OF OPINIONS.
SOME praise at morning what they blame at
But always think the last opinion right,
A Mufe by them is like a mistress us'd,
This hour fhe's idolis'd, the next abus'd;
While their weak heads, like towns unfortify'd,
"Twixt fenfe and nonsense daily change their fide.
Afk them the caufe; they're wifer ftill, they fay;
And ftill to-morrow's wifer than to-day.
We think our fathers fools, fo wife we grow ;
Our wifer fons, no doubt, will think us fo.
Once School-divines this zealous ifle o'erfpread;
Who knew moft fentences, was deepest read:
Faith, gofpel, all feem'd made to be difputed,
And none had fenfe enough to be confuted.
Scotifts and Thomifts now in peace remain,
Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Duck-lane.
If Faith itfelf has diff'rent dreffes worn,
What wonder modes in Wit fhould take their turn?
Oft, leaving what is natural and fit,
The current folly proves the ready wit;
And authors think their reputation fafe,
Which lives as long as fools are pleas'd to laugh.
DANGER OF WIT.
UNHAPPY Wit, like most mistaken things, Atones not for that envy which it brings : In youth alone its empty praise we boast, But foon the fhort-liv'd vanity is loft; Like fome fair flow'r the early spring supplies, That gaily blooms, but e'en in blooming dies.
What is this Wit, which muft our cares employ? The owner's wife, that other men enjoy ;
Then most our trouble ftill when most admir'd;
And still the more we give, the more requir'd;
Whofe fame with pains we guard, but lofe with
eafe,
Sure fome to vex, but never all to please:
'Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous fhun,
By fools 'tis hated, and by knaves undone !
THE DUTY OF A CRITIC.
'TIS not enough your counsel ftill be true; Blunt truths more mifchiefs than nice falfhoods do: Men must be taught as if you taught them not, And things unknown propos'd as things forgot. Without good-breeding truth is disapprov'd; That only makes fuperior fenfe belov'd.
Be niggards of advice on no pretence ;
For the worst avarice is that of sense.
With mean complacence ne'er betray your trust,
Nor be fo civil as to prove unjust.
Fear not the anger of the wife to raise;
Those best can bear reproof who merit praise.
"Tis beft fometimes your cenfure to reftrain, And charitably let the dull be vain :
Your filence there is better than your spite,
For who can rail fo long as they can write?
Still humming on, their droufy course they keep,
And lafh'd fo long, like tops, are lash'd asleep.
Falfe fteps but help them to renew the race,
As, after ftumbling, jades will mend their pace.
What crouds of thefe, impenitently bold,
In founds and jingling fyllables grown old,
Still run on poets, in a raging vein,
E'en to the dregs and fqueezings of the brain;
Strain out the laft dull dropping of their fenfe,
And rhyme with all the rage of impotence!
But where's the man who counfel can beftow, Still pleas'd to teach, and yet not proud to know ? Unbiafs'd or by favour, or by spite;
Not dully prepoffefs'd, nor blindly right; Though learn'd, well-bred; and though well-bred, fincere ;
Modeftly bold, and humanely severe :
Who to a friend his faults can freely fhow,
And gladly praise the merit of a foe?
Bleft with a taste exact, yet unconfin'd;
A knowledge both of books and human kind;
Gen'rous converfe; a foul exempt from pride;
And love to praife, with reafon on his fide?
Such once were Critics; Athens and Rome in better
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