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'erípread,
Who knew moft fentences, was deepeft read;
Faith, Gospel, all, feem'd made to be difputed,
And none had fenfe enough to be confuted:
Scotifts and Thomifts, now, in peace remain,
Amidft their kindred cobwebs in Duck-lane*.
If Faith itself 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.
Some valuing those of their own fide or mind,
Still make themselves the measure of mankind :
Fondly we think we honour merit then;
When we but praise ourselves in other men.
Parties in Wit attend on thofe of State,
And public faction doubles private hate.
Pride, Malice, Folly, against Dryden rofe,
In various fhapes of Parfons, Critics, Beaus;
But fenfe furviv'd, when merry jefts were paft;
For rifing merit will buoy up at last.
Might he return, and bless once more our eyes,
New Blackmores and new Milbourns muft arife:
Nay, fhould great Homer lift his awful head,
Zoilus again would ftart up from the dead.
Envy will merit, as its fhade, purfue;
But like a fhadow, proves the fubftance true;
For envy'd Wit, like Sol eclips'd, makes known
Th' oppofing body's groffness, not its own.
When firft that fun too pow'rful beams difplays,
It draws up vapours which obfcure its rays;
But ev'n thofe clouds at last adorn its way,
Reflect new glories, and augment the day.
* A place where old and fecond-hand books were fold formerly, near
Be thou the first true merit to befriend,
His praife is loft, who ftays 'till all commend.
Short is the date, alas, of modern rhymes,
And 'tis but juft to let 'em live betimes.
No longer now that golden age appears,
When Patriarch-wits furviv'd a thousand years:
Now length of fame (our fecond life) is loft,
And bare threefcore is all ev'n that can boast:
Our fons their fathers failing language fee,
And such as Chaucer is, fhall Dryden be.
So when the faithful pencil has defign'd
Some bright idea of the mafter's mind,
Where a new world leaps out at his command,
And ready nature waits upon his hand;
When the ripe colours foften and unite,
And sweetly melt into just shade and light,
When mellowing years their full perfection give,
And each bold figure juft begins to live;
The treach'rous colours the fair art betray,
And all the bright creation fades away!
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 short-liv'd vanity is loft!
Like fome fair flow'r the early fpring fupplies,
gayly blooms, but ev'n in blooming dies. What is this wit, which muft our cares employ? The owner's wife, that other men enjoy;
The most our trouble ftill when moft admir'd;
The more we give, the more is ftill requir'd;
The fame with pains we gain, but lose with ease;
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 !
If wit fo much from ign'rance undergo,
learning too commence its foe! Of old, thofe met rewards who could excel, And fuch were prais'd who but endeavour'd well:
Tho' Triumphs were to Gen'rals only due,
Crowns were referv'd to grace the foldiers too.
Now, they who reach Parnaffus' lofty crown,
Employ their pains to fpurn fome others down;
And while felf-love each jealous writer rules,
Contending wits become the sport of fools.
But ftill the worft with moft regret commend,
For each ill Author is as bad a Friend.
To what base ends, and by what abject ways,
Are mortals urg'd thro' facred luft of praise!
Ah ne'er fo dire a thirft of glory boaft,
Nor in the Critic let the Man be loft!
Good nature and good fenfe muft ever join;
To'err is human, to forgive, divine.
But if in noble minds fome dregs remain,"
Not yet purg'd off, of spleen and four difdain;
Difcharge that rage on more provoking crimes,
Nor fear a dearth in these flagitious times.
No pardon vile Obscenity fhould find,
Tho' wit and art confpire to move your mind;
But Dulness with obfcenity must prove
As fhameful fure as Impotence in love.
In the fat age of pleafure, wealth, and ease,
Sprung the rank weed, and thriv'd with large increase;
When Love was all an easy Monarch's care;
Seldom at council, never in a war;
Jilts rul'd the ftate, and statesmen Farces writ ;
Nay, wits had pentions, and young Lords had wit:
Where heav'n's free fubjects might their rights difpute,
Left God himself fhould feem too Abfolute :
Pulpits their facred fatire learn'd to fpare,
And Vice admir'd to find a flatt'rer there!
Encourag'd thus, Wit's Titans brav❜d the skies,
And the Prefs groan'd with licens'd blafphemies.
Thefe monsters, Critics! with your darts engage,
Here point your thunder, and exhauft your rage!
Yet fhun their fault, who, fcandaloufly nice,
Will needs mistake an author into vice;
All feems infected that th' infected fpy,
As all looks yellow to the jaundic'd eye.
LEARN then what Morals Critics ought to fhow,
For 'tis but half a judge's task, to know.
'Tis not enough, wit, art, and learning join;
In all you fpeak, let truth and candour shine:
That not alone what to your jugdment's due
All may allow ; but feek your friendship too.
Be filent always when you doubt your sense;
And speak, tho' fure, with feeming diffidence:
Some pofitive, perfifting fops we know,
Who, if once wrong, will needs be always fo;
But you, with pleasure own your errors paft,
And make each day a Critic on the laft.
'Tis not enough, your counfel ftill be true;
Blunt truths more mischief 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 difapprov'd ;
That only makes fuperior fenfe belov❜d.
Be niggards of advice on no pretence;
For the worst avarice is that of fenfe.
With mean complacence ne'er betray your truft,
Nor be fo civil as to prove unjuft.
Fear not the anger of the wife to raise ;
Those best can bear reproof, who merit praise.
'Twere well might Critics ftill this freedom take;
But Appius reddens at each word you speak,
And ftares, tremendous, with a threat'ning eye,
Like fome fierce Tyrant in old Tapestry.
Fear moft to tax an Honourable fool,
Whofe right it is, uncenfur'd to be dull;
Such without wit are Poets when they please,
As without learning they can take Degrees.
Leave dang'rous truths to unfuccefsful Satyrs,
And flattery-to fulfome Dedicators,
Whom, when they praise, the world believes no more,
Than when they promise to give fcribbling o'er.
'Tis beft fometimes your cenfure to reftrain,
And charitably let the dull be vain :
Your filence there is better than your fpite,
For who can rail fo long as they can write?
Still humming on, their drouzy course they keep,
And lafh'd fo long, like Tops, are lafh'd afleep.
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,
Ev'n to the dregs and fqueezings of the brain,'
Strain out the laft dull droppings of their sense,
And rhyme with all the rage of Impotence.
Such fhameless Bards we have; and yet 'tis true,
All books he reads, and all he reads affails,
From Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's Tales.
With him, most authors fteal their works, or buy;
Garth did not write his own Difpenfary.
Name a new Play, and he's the Poet's friend,
Nay show'd his faults-but when would Poets mend?
No place fo facred from fuch fops is barr'd,
Nor is Paul's church more safe than Paul's church-yard:
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