Falfe elequence, like the prifmatic glafs,
Its gaudy colours fpreads on every place;
The race of Nature we no more furvey,
All plares alike, without diftinétion gay:
But true expreffion, like th' unchanging fun,
Clears and improves whate'er it hines upon;
It gilds all objects, but it alters none.
Laprofion is the drefs of thought, and fill,
Appears more decent, as more fuitable;

314

}

Soft is the train when Zephyr gently blows,

And the fmooth ftream in fmoother numbers

flows;

But when loud furges lath the founding fore,
The hoarfe, rough verte fhould like the torrent

roar.

When Ajax ftrives fome rock's vast weight to throw,

370 The line too labours, and the words move Low.

A vile conceit, in pompous words expreis'd, 320Not fo when fwift Camilla fcours the plain,

Is like a clown in regal purple drefs'd :
For different fyles with di erent fubje&is fort,
As feveral garbs, with country, town, and court.
Some by old words to Fame have made pretence,
Ancients in parale, mere moderns in their fenfe;
Such fabour'd nothings, in fo ftrarge a tyle, 326
Amaz'd til' unlearn'd, and make the learned

Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and fkims along the main.

375

Hear how Timotheus' vary'd lays furprize,
And bid alternate pafions fall and rife!
While, at each change, the fon of Libyan Jove
Now burns with glory, and then melts with love;
Now his fierce eyes with fparkling fury glow,
Now fighs fteal out, and tears begin to flow:
Perbans and Greeks like turns of nature found,
And the world's victor food fubdued by found!
The power of Mufc all our hearts allow,
And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now,

Avoid extremes; and fhun the fault of fuch,
Who ftill are pleas'd too little or too much. 335
At every trifle fcorn to take offence,
That always fhews great pride, or little fenfe:
Thofe heads, as fioinachs, are not fure the best,
Which naufeate all, and nothing can digest,
Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move; 390
For fools admire, but men of fenfe approve:
As things feem large which we through mitts de-
fery,

Duluefs is ever apt to magnify.

395

400

Some foreign writers, fome our own despise;
The Ancients only, or the Moderns prize:
Thus Wit, like Faith, by each man is apply'd
To one fm all fed, and all are damn'd beide.
Meanly they feck the bleffing to confine,
Aad force that fun but on a part to fine,
Which not alone the fouthern wit fublimes,
But ripens fpirits in cold northern climes;
Which from the frit has f one on ages pait,
Enlights the prefent, and skall warm the laft.
Though each may feel increafes and decays,
And fee now clearer and now darker days.
Regard not then if wit be old or new,
But blame the falfe, and value ftill the truc.
Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own,
But catch the fpreading notion of the town;
They reafon and conclude by precedent,
And own ftale nontenfe which they ne'er invent.
Some judge of authors' names, not works, and
then

495

410

415

Nor praife ner blame the writings, but the men.
Of all this fervile herd, the worlt 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 flare'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 every fault,
And each exalt ftanza teems with thought!

420

༧

425

The vulgar thus through imitation err;
As oft the Learn'd by being fingular;
So much they fcorn the crowd, that if the throng
By chance go right, they purpofely go wrong:
So Schifmatics the plain believers quit,
And are hut damned for having too much wit.
Some praife at morning what they blame at night,
But always think the last opinion right.
A Mufe by thefe is like a miftrefs us'd,
This hour the 's idoliz'd, the next abus'd;
While their weak heads, like towns unfortify'd,
'Twixt fenfe and nonfenfe daily change their
435

fide.

431

Alk them the caufe; they're wifer ftill, they fay;
And itill 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; 441
Faith, gofpel, all, feem'd made to be difputed,
And none had fenfe enough to be confuted:
Scotifts and Thomifts, now in remain,
peace
Amidft their kindred cobwebs in Duck-lane.
If Faith itfelf has different dreffes worn,
What wonder modes in Wit fhould take their
torn?

445

450

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 thofe of their own fide or mind,
Still make themfelves the measure of mankind;
Fondly we think we honour merit then,
When we but praife ourselves in other men. 455
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, Beaux;
But fenfe furviv'd, when merry jefts were past;
For rifing merit will buoy up at laft.

465

Might he return, and blefs once more our eyes,
New Blackmores and new Milbourns muft arife:
Nay, fhould great Homer lift his awful head,
Zoilus again would start up from the dead.
Envy will merit, as its fhade, pursue ;
But, like a fhadow, proves the fubstance true :
For envy'd Wit, like Sol eclips'd, makes known
Th' oppofing body's groffiefs, not its own.
When firft that fun too powerful beams difplays,
It draws up vapours which obfcure its rays;
But ev'n thofe clouds at laft adorn its way,
Reflect new glories, and augment the day.

Where a new world leaps out at his command,
And ready Nature waits upon his hand;
When the ripe colours foiten and unite,
And fweetly melt into just shade and light;
When mellowing years their full perfection give,
And each bold figure just begins to live;
The treacherous colours the fair art betray,
And all the bright creation fades away!

491

495

Unhappy wit, like most mistaken things,
Atones not for that envy, which it brings;
In youth alone its empty praise we boaft,
But foon the short-liv'd vanity is loft:
Like fome fair flower the early fpring fupplies,
That 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 moft our trouble ftill when most admir'd,
And ftill the more we give, the inore requir'd;
Whofe fame with pains we guard, but lofe with
eafe,

501

505

Sure fome to vex, but never all to please ;
'Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous fhun;
By fools 'tis hated, and by knaves undōne!
If Wit fo much from ignorance undergo,
Ah, let not learning too commence its foe!
Of old, thofe met rewards, who could excell, 510
And fuch were prais'd who but endeavour'd well;
Though triumphs were to generals 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 fport of fools:
But ftill the worft with moit regret commend,`
For each ill author is as bad a friend.

To what bafe ends, and by what abject ways, 520
Are mortals urg'd through facred luft of praise !
Ah, ne'er fo dire a thirft of glory boaft,
Nor in the Critic let the man be lost.
Good-nature and good-fense must ever join ;
To err, is human; to forgive, divine.

525

530

But if in noble minds fome dregs remain,
Not yet purg'd off, of fpleen and four difdain;
Difcharge that rage on more provoking crimes,
Nor fear a dearth in thefe flagitious times.
No pardon vile obfcenity fhould find,
Though wit and art confpire to move your mind;
But dulnefs with obfcenity must prove
As fhameful fure as impotence in love.
In the fat age of pleafure, wealth, and cafe,
Sprang the rank weed, and thriv'd with large in-

creafe:

540

When love was all an eafy Monarch's care;
Seldom at council, never in a war :
Jilts rul'd the ftate, and ftatefmen farces writ;
Nay wits had penfions, and young lords had wit:
The Fair fat panting at a Courtier's play,
And not a mask went unimprov'd away :
The modeft fan was lifted up no more,
And Virgins fmil'd at what they blufn'd before.
The following licenfe of a foreign reign
Did all the dregs of bold Socinus drain;
Then unbelieving Priefts reform'd the nation,
485 And taught more pleasant methods of falvation;
S 6

Be thou the frit, true merit to befriend;
His praise is loft, who ftays till all commend. 475
Short is the date, alas, of modern rhymes,
And 'tis but just to let them live betines.
No longer now that golden age appears,
When Patriarch-wits furviv'd a thousand years;
Now length of Fame (our fecond life) is loft, 480
And bare thrcefcore is all ev'n that can boast;
Our fons their fathers' failing language fee,
And fuch as Chaucer is, fall Dryden be.
So when the faithful pencil has defign'd
Some bright idea of the mafter's mind,
VOL. VI.

545

Where Heaven's free fubjects might their rights difpute,

550

Left God himself should feem too abfolute;
Pulpits their facred fatire learn'd to spare,
And Vice admir'd to find a flatterer there!
Encourag'd thus, Wit's Titans brav'd the kies,
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 spy,

As all looks yellow to the jaundic'd eye,

Strain out the laft dull dropping of their fenfe,
And rhyme with all the rage of impotence!
Such fhameless Bards we have: and yet 'tis
true,
616
There are as mad, abandon'd Criticks too.
The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read,
With loads of learned lumber in his head,
With his own tongue ftill edifies his ears
And always liftening to himself appears.
All books he reads, and all he reads affails,
From Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's Tales:
With him, moft authors fteal their works, or buy;
Garth did not write his own Difpenfary.

615

LEARN then what MORALS Critics ought to Name a new Play, and he's the Poet's friend,

fnow;

For 'tis but half a judge's task, to know.
'Tis not enough, taste, judgment, learning, join;
In all you fpea, let truth and candour thine;
That not alone what to your fenfe is due
All may allow, but feek your friendship too. 565
Be lent always, when you doubt your fenfe;
And fpeak, though 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 past,
And make each day a critique on the last.

571

'Tis not enough your counsel still be true; Blunt truths more mischief than nice falfehoods 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; 576
That only makes fuperior fenfe belov'd.

Be niggards of advice on no pretence;
For the worst avarice is that of fenfe.

Nay fhow'd his faults-but when would Poets
mend?

No place fo facred from fuch fops is barr'd,
Nor is Paul's church more fafe than Paul's church.
yard:

Nay, fly to Altars; there they'll talk you dead;
For Fools rufh in where Angels fear to tread, 615
Distrustful fenfe with modeft caution speaks,
It still looks home, and fort excurfions makes:
But rattling nonfenfe in full vollies breaks,
And, never shock'd, and never turn'd afide,
Burfts out, refftlefs, with a thundering tide. 639

But where's the man, who counsel can bestow,
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 humanly fevere :
Who to a friend his faults can freely show,
And gladly praife the merit of a foe?

635

With mean complacence, ne'er betray your truft, Bleft with a tafte exact, yet uncontin'd;
Nor be fo civil as to prove unjust.
Fear not the anger of the wife to raise;
Those best can bear reproof, who merit praife.
"Twere well might Critics ftill this freedom
take :

A knowledge both of books and human kind; 640
Generous converfe, a foul exempt from pride;
And love to praife, with reafon on his fide?

But Appius reddens at each word you speak, 585
And fares tremendous, with a threatening eye,
Like fome fierce tyrant in old tapestry.
Fear most to tax an honourable focl,
Whofe right it is, uncerfur'd, to be dull!
Such, without wit, are Poets when they please,
As without learning they can take degrees.
Leave dangerous truths to unfuccefsful fatires,
And fiattery to fulfome dedicators,
Whom, when they praife, the world believes no

more

591

'Than when they promise to give fcribbling o'er.
Tis beft fometimes your cenfure to reftrain, 596
And charitably let the dull be vain:

Your flence there is better than your fpite,
For who can rail fo long as they can write?
Still humming on, their drowzy course they keep,
And lafted fo long, like tops, are lafh'd asleep.
Falfe fteps but help them to renew the race,
As, after stumbling, jades will mend their pace.
What crowds of thefe, impenitently bold,
In founds and jingling fyllables grown old, to
Still run on poets, in a raging vein,

Ey'n to the dregs and fqueezings of the brain,

645

650

Such once were Critics; fuch the happy few
Athens and Rome in better ages knew:
The mighty Stagyrite first left the fhore,
Spread all his fails, and durft the deeps explore
He fteer'd fecurely, and difcover'd far,
Led by the Light of the Mæonian Star.
Poets, a race long unconfin'd and free,
Still fond and proud of favage liberty,
Receiv'd his laws; and flood convinc'd 'twas fit,
Who conquer'd Nature, fhould prefide o'er Wit,
Horace ftill charms with graceful negligence,
And without method talks us into fenfe,
Will, like a friend, familiarly convey
The trueft notions in the easest way.
He, who fupreme in judgment, as in wit,
Might boldly cenfure, as he boldly writ,
Yet judg'd with coolness, though he fung with

fre;

655

His precepts teach hut what his works inspire. 660
Our Critics take a contrary extreme,
They judge with fury, but they write with
phlegm :

Nor fuffers Horace more in wrong
Tranflations
By Wits, than Critics in as wrong Quotations.
See Dionyfius Homer's thoughts refine, 665
And call new beauties forth from every line!、

6 But all the Vifion vanish'd from thy head.