Unlucky, as Fungofa in the play,
These sparks with awkward vanity difplay
What the fine gentleman wore yesterday;
And but fo mimic ancient wits at beft,
As apes our grandfires in their doublets drest.
In words, as fashions, the fame rule will hold;
Alike fantastic, if too new or old :
Be not the first by whom the new are try'd
Nor yet the laft to lay the old afide.
But most by numbers judge a poet's fong; And fmooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong: In the bright Muse though thousand charms confpire, Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire; Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear, Not mend their minds; as some to church repair, Not for the doctrine, but the music there.
These, 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 still expected rhymes;
Where'er you find "the cooling western breeze," 350
In the next line it " whispers through the trees :"
If crystal streams "with pleasing 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, 355
A needless
Ver. 338. Ed. 1. And smooth or rough, with fuch, &c.
A needless Alexandrine ends the song,
That, like a wounded snake, drags its flow length along.
Leave such 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 strength and Waller's sweetness join,
True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.
'Tis not enough no harsiness gives offence, The found must seem an Echo to the sense :
Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows,
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;
But when loud surges lash the founding shore,
The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar.
When Ajax ftrives some rock's vast weight to throw,
The line too labours, and the words move flow:
Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain,
Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main,
Hear how Timotheus' vary'd lays surprize,
And bid alternate passions fall and rise!
While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove
Now burns with glory, and then melts with love;
Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow,
Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow :
Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found,
And the world's victor stood fubdued by found!
The power of Music all our hearts allow,
And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now.
Ver. 363, 364. These lines are added.
Ver. 368. But when loud billows, &c.
Avoid extremes; and shun the fault of fuch,
Who still are pleas'd too little or too much.
At every trifle scorn to take offence,
That always shews great pride, or little sense;
Those heads, as stomachs, are not fure the best,
Which nauseate all, and nothing can digeft.
Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move;
For fools admire, but men of sense approve :
A's things seem large which we through mists descry,
Dulness is ever apt to magnify.
Some foreign writers, some our own despise;
The Ancients only, or the Moderns prize;
Thus Wit, like Faith, by each man is apply'd
To one small sect, and all are damn'd beside.
Meanly they seek the blessing to confine,
And force that fun but on a part to shine,
Which not alone the fouthern wit fublimes,
But ripens spirits in cold northern climes;
Which from the first has shone on ages past,
Enlights the present, and shall warm the last;
Though each may feel encreases and decays,
And fee now clearer and now darker days.
Regard not then if wit be old or new,
But blame the false, and value still the true.
Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own,
But catch the spreading notion of the town;
They reason and conclude by precedent,
And own stale nonsense which they ne'er invent.
Ver. 394. Ed. 1. Some the French writers, &c.
Some judge of authors names, not works, and then
Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men.
Of all this servile herd, the worst is he
That in proud dulness joins with quality;
A constant Critic at the great man's board,
To fetch and carry nonsense 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 style refines!
Before his facred name flies every fault,
And each exalted stanza teems with thought!
The vulgar thus through imitation err;
As oft the Learn'd by being fingular;
So much they scorn the crowd, that if the throng
By chance go right, they purposely go wrong:
So Schifmatics the plain believers quit,
And are but damn'd for having too much wit.
Some praise at morning what they blame at night; 430
But always think the last opinion right.
A Muse by these is like a mifstress us'd,
This hour she's idoliz'd, the next abus'd;
While their weak heads like towns unfortify'd,
'Twixt sense and nonsense daily change their side. 435
Ask them the cause; they're wifer ftill, they say;
And still to-morrow's wifer than to-day.
Ver. 413. Ed. 1. Nor praise nor damn, &c.
Ver. 428. So Schifmatics the dull, &c.
We think our fathers fools; so wife we grow;
Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us fo.
Once School-divines this zealous ifle o'erspread;
Who knew most sentences was deepest read:
Faith, gofpel, all, seem'd made to be disputed,
And none had sense enough to be confuted:
Scotifts and Thomists, now in peace remain,
Amidft their kindred cobwebs in Duck-lane.
If Faith itself has different dresses worn,
What wonder modes in Wit should take their turn?
Oft', leaving what is natural and fit,
The current folly proves the ready wit;
And authors think their reputation safe,
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 those of State,
And public faction doubles private hate.
Ver. 447. Between this and ver. 448.
The rhyming Clowns that gladded Shakespeare's age,
No more with crambo entertain the stage.
Who now in Anagrams their Patron praise,
Or fing their Mistress in Acrostic lays;
Ev'n pulpits pleas'd with merry puns of yore;
Now all are banish'd to th' Hibernian shore!
Thus leaving what was natural and fit,
The current folly prov'd their ready wit;
And authors thought their reputation safe,
Which liv'd as long as fools were pleas'd to laugh.
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