1'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 mis-lead our Sense:
Some few in that, but Numbers err in this,
Ten Censure wrong for one who Writes amiss;
A Fool might once himself alone expose,
Now One in Verse makes many more in Prose.
'Tis with our Judgments as our Watches, none
Go just
alike, yet each believes his own.
In
Poets as true Genius is but rare,
True Taste as
seldom is the Critick's Share;
Both must alike from Heav'n
derive their Light,
These born to Judge, as well as those to
Write.
Let such teach others who themselves excell,
And censure
freely who have written well.
Authors are partial to
their Wit, 'tis true,
But are not Criticks to their
Judgment too?
Yet if we look more closely, we shall find
Most have the Seeds of Judgment in their Mind;
Nature affords at least a glimm'ring Light;
The Lines, tho' touch'd but faintly, are drawn right.
But as the slightest Sketch, if justly trac'd,
Is by ill Colouring but the more disgrac'd,
So by false Learning is good Sense defac'd.
Some are bewilder'd in the Maze of Schools,
And some made Coxcombs Nature meant but Fools.
In search of Wit these lose their common Sense,
And then turn Criticks in their own Defence.
Each burns alike, who can, or cannot write,
Or with a Rival's or an Eunuch's spite.
All Fools have still an Itching to deride,
And fain wou'd be upon the Laughing Side;
If Maevius Scribble in Apollo's spight,
There are, who judge still worse than he can write
Some have at first for Wits, then Poets past,
Turn'd
Criticks next, and prov'd plain Fools at last;
Some
neither can for Wits nor Criticks pass,
As heavy Mules
are neither Horse or Ass.
Those half-learn'd Witlings,
num'rous in our Isle,
As half-form'd Insects on the
Banks of Nile:
Unfinish'd Things, one knows now what to
call,
Their Generation's so equivocal:
To tell 'em, wou'd a hundred Tongues require,
Or one vain Wit's, that might a
hundred tire.
46 But you who seek to give and merit Fame,
And justly bear a Critick's noble Name,
Be sure your self and your own
Reach to know.
How far your Genius, Taste, and
Learning go;
Launch not beyond your Depth, but be discreet,
And mark that Point where Sense and Dulness meet.
Nature to all things fix'd the Limits fit,
And wisely curb'd proud
Man's pretending Wit:
As on the Land while here the
Ocean gains,
In other Parts it leaves wide sandy
Plains;
Thus in the Soul while Memory prevails,
The
solid Pow'r of Understanding fails;
Where Beams of warm
Imagination play,
The Memory's soft Figures melt
away.
One Science only will one Genius fit;
So vast is Art, so narrow Human
Wit;
Not only bounded to peculiar Arts,
But oft in
those, confin'd to single Parts.
Like Kings we lose the
Conquests gain'd before,
By vain Ambition still to make them
more:
Each might his sev'ral Province well command,
Wou'd all
but stoop to what they understand.
68 First follow NATURE, and your Judgment frame
By her
just Standard, which is still the same:
70 Unerring Nature, still
divinely bright,
One clear, unchang'd
and Universal Light,
Life, Force, and Beauty, must to all
impart,
At once the Source, and End, and Test of
Art.
Art from that Fund each just Supply
provides,
Works without Show, and without Pomp presides:
In some fair Body thus th' informing Soul
With Spirits feeds, with Vigour fills the whole,
Each Motion guides, and ev'ry Nerve sustains;
It self unseen, but in th' Effects,
remains.
80 Some, to whom Heav'n in Wit has been profuse.
Want as much more, to turn it to its use,
For
Wit and Judgment often are at strife,
Tho' meant each
other's Aid, like Man and Wife.
'Tis more to guide
than spur the Muse's Steed;
Restrain his Fury, than provoke his
Speed;
The winged Courser, like a gen'rous Horse,
Shows most true Mettle when you check his Course.
88 Those RULES of old discover'd, not
devis'd,
Are Nature still, but Nature
Methodiz'd;
Nature, like Liberty, is but restrain'd
By the same Laws which first herself ordain'd.
Hear how learn'd Greece her useful Rules indites,
When to repress, and when indulge our Flights:
High on Parnassus' Top her Sons she show'd,
And pointed out those arduous Paths they trod,
Held from afar, aloft, th' Immortal Prize,
And urg'd the rest by equal Steps to rise;
Just Precepts thus from great Examples giv'n,
She drew from them what they deriv'd from Heav'n
The gen'rous Critick fann'd the Poet's
Fire,
And taught the World, with Reason
to Admire.
Then Criticism the Muse's Handmaid prov'd,
To
dress her Charms, and make her more belov'd;
104 But following Wits from
that Intention stray'd;
Who cou'd not win the Mistress, woo'd the
Maid;
Against the Poets their own Arms they turn'd,
Sure to
hate most the Men from whom they learn'd.
So modern
Pothecaries, taught the Art
By Doctor's Bills to play the
Doctor's Part,
Bold in the Practice of mistaken Rules,
Prescribe, apply, and call their Masters
Fools.
Some on the Leaves of ancient Authors prey,
Nor
Time nor Moths e'er spoil'd so much as they:
Some dryly plain, without
Invention's Aid,
Write dull Receits how Poems may be
made:
These leave the Sense, their Learning to display,
And theme
explain the Meaning quite away.
118 You then whose Judgment the right Course wou'd steer,
Know
well each ANCIENT's proper Character,
His
Fable, Subject, Scope in ev'ry Page,
Religion, Country, Genius of
his Age:
Without all these at once before your
Eyes,
Cavil you may, but never Criticize.
Be
Homer's Works your Study, and Delight,
Read them
by Day, and meditate by Night,
Thence form your Judgment, thence your
Maxims bring,
And trace the Muses upward to their
Spring;
Still with It self compar'd, his Text
peruse;
And let your Comment be the Mantuan Muse.
When first young Maro in his boundless Mind
A Work t' outlast Immortal Rome
design'd,
Perhaps he seem'd above the Critick's Law,
And but
from Nature's Fountains scorn'd to draw:
But when t'examine
ev'ry Part he came,
Nature and Homer were, he found, the
same:
Convinc'd, amaz'd, he checks the bold Design,
And Rules
as strict his labour'd Work confine,
As if the Stagirite o'er looked each Line.
Learn hence for Ancient Rules a just
Esteem;
To copy Nature is to copy Them.
141 Some Beauties yet, no Precepts can declare,
For there's a Happiness as well as Care.
Musick resembles
Poetry, in each
Are nameless Graces which no Methods
teach,
And which a Master-Hand alone can reach.
If, where the
Rules not far enough extend,
(Since Rules were made but to
promote their End)
Some Lucky LICENCE answers to the
full
Th' Intent propos'd, that Licence is a Rule.
Thus
Pegasus, a nearer way to take,
May boldly
deviate from the common Track.
Great Wits sometimes may gloriously
offend,
And rise to Faults true Criticks dare not
mend;
From vulgar Bounds with brave Disorder
part,
And snatch a Grace beyond the Reach of Art,
Which,
without passing thro' the Judgment, gains
The Heart, and
all its End at once attains.
In Prospects, thus, some
Objects please our Eyes,
Which out of Nature's common
Order rise,
The shapeless Rock, or hanging Precipice.
But tho' the Ancients thus their
Rules invade,
(As Kings dispense with Laws
Themselves have made)
Moderns, beware! Or if you must
offend
Against the Precept, ne'er transgress its
End,
Let it be seldom, and compell'd by
Need,
And have, at least, Their Precedent to plead.
The
Critick else proceeds without Remorse,
Seizes your Fame, and puts his
Laws in force.
I know there are, to whose presumptuous Thoughts
Those Freer Beauties, ev'n in Them, seem Faults:
Some Figures monstrous and mis-shap'd appear,
Consider'd singly, or beheld too
near,
Which, but proportion'd to their Light, or
Place,
Due Distance reconciles to Form and Grace.
A
prudent Chief not always must display
His Pow'rs in equal Ranks,
and fair Array,
But with th' Occasion and the
Place comply,
Conceal his Force, nay seem sometimes to
Fly.
Those oft are Stratagems which Errors
seem,
Nor is it Homer Nods, but We that Dream.
Still green with Bays each ancient Altar stands,
Above the
reach of Sacrilegious Hands,
Secure from Flames, from
Envy's fiercer Rage,
Destructive War, and all-involving
Age.
See, from each Clime the Learn'd their Incense
bring;
Hear, in all Tongues consenting Paeans ring!
In Praise so just, let ev'ry Voice be join'd,
And fill the Gen'ral Chorus of Mankind!
Hail Bards Triumphant! born in
happier Days;
Immortal Heirs of Universal Praise!
Whose Honours with Increase of Ages
grow,
As streams roll down, enlarging as they
flow!
Nations unborn your mighty Names shall sound,
And
Worlds applaud that must not yet be found!
Oh may some Spark of
your Coelestial Fire
The last, the meanest of your Sons
inspire,
(That on weak Wings, from far, pursues your
Flights;
Glows while he reads, but trembles as he
writes)
To teach vain Wits a Science little known,
T'
admire Superior Sense, and doubt their own!
201 "Of all the Causes which conspire to blind
Man's erring Judgment, and
misguide the Mind,
What the weak Head with strongest Byass rules,
Is
Pride, the never-failing Vice of Fools.
Whatever Nature
has in Worth deny'd,
She gives in large Recruits of needful
Pride;
For as in Bodies, thus in Souls, we
find
What wants in Blood and Spirits, swell'd with
Wind;
Pride, where Wit fails, steps in to our Defence,
And
fills up all the mighty Void of Sense!
If
once right Reason drives that Cloud away,
Truth breaks
upon us with resistless Day;
Trust not your self; but your
Defects to know,
Make use of ev'ry Friend — and ev'ry Foe.
A little Learning is a dang'rous Thing;
Drink deep, or taste
not the Pierian Spring:
There shallow Draughts intoxicate
the Brain,
And drinking largely sobers us again.
Fir'd at
first Sight with what the Muse imparts,
In fearless Youth
we tempt the Heights of Arts,
While from the
bounded Level of our Mind,
Short Views we take, nor see
the lengths behind,
But more advanc'd, behold with strange
Surprize
New, distant Scenes of endless Science rise!
So
pleas'd at first, the towring Alps we try,
Mount o'er the Vales,
and seem to tread the Sky;
Th' Eternal Snows appear already
past,
And the first Clouds and Mountains seem the
last:
But those attain'd, we tremble to survey
The growing
Labours of the lengthen'd Way,
Th'
increasing Prospect tires our wandering Eyes,
Hills peep
o'er Hills, and Alps on Alps arise!
233 A perfect Judge will read each Work of Wit
With the same
Spirit that its Author writ,
Survey the Whole, nor seek
slight Faults to find,
Where Nature moves, and Rapture
warms the Mind;
Nor lose, for that malignant dull Delight,
The
gen'rous Pleasure to be charm'd with Wit.
But in such Lays as
neither ebb, nor flow,
Correctly cold, and regularly low,
That shunning Faults, one quiet Tenour keep;
We cannot blame indeed — but we may
sleep.
In Wit, as Nature, what affects our Hearts
Is nor th'
Exactness of peculiar Parts;
'Tis not a Lip, or Eye, we
Beauty call,
But the joint Force and full Result of
all.
Thus when we view some well-proportion'd Dome,
(The World's just Wonder, and ev'n thine O Rome!)
No
single Parts unequally surprize;
All comes united to th'
admiring Eyes;
No monstrous Height, or Breadth, or
Length appear;
The Whole at once is Bold, and
Regular.
253 Whoever thinks a faultless Piece to see,
Thinks what ne'er was, nor
is, nor e'er shall be.
In ev'ry Work regard the Writer's
End,
Since none can compass more than they Intend;
And if
the Means be just, the Conduct true,
Applause, in spite
of trivial Faults, is due.
As Men of Breeding, sometimes Men of
Wit,
T' avoid great Errors, must the less commit,
Neglect the Rules each Verbal Critick
lays,
For not to know some Trifles, is a Praise.
Most
Criticks, fond of some subservient Art,
Still make the Whole
depend upon a Part,
They talk of Principles, but Notions
prize,
And All to one lov'd Folly Sacrifice.
267 Once on a time, La Mancha's Knight, they say,
A certain
Bard encountring on the Way,
Discours'd in Terms as just, with
Looks as Sage,
As e'er cou'd Dennis, of the Grecian
Stage;
Concluding all were desp'rate Sots and
Fools,
Who durst depart from Aristotle's Rules.
Our Author,
happy in a Judge so nice,
Produc'd his Play, and beg'd the Knight's
Advice,
Made him observe the Subject and the Plot,
The
Manners, Passions, Unities, what not?
All which,
exact to Rule were brought about,
Were but a Combate in the
Lists left out.
What! Leave the Combate out? Exclaims the
Knight;
Yes, or we must renounce the Stagyrite.
Not so by Heav'n (he answers in a
Rage)
Knights, Squires, and Steeds, must enter on the
Stage.
So vast a Throng the Stage can ne'er contain.
Then
build a New, or act it in a Plain.
Thus Criticks, of less Judgment than
Caprice,
Curious, not Knowing, not exact,
but nice,
Form short Ideas; and offend in
Arts
(As most in Manners) by a Love to Parts.
289 Some to Conceit alone their Taste confine,
And glitt'ring
Thoughts struck out at ev'ry Line;
Pleas'd with a
Work where nothing's just or fit;
One glaring Chaos and wild
Heap of Wit;
Poets like Painters, thus, unskill'd to
trace
The naked Nature and the living Grace,
With
Gold and Jewels cover ev'ry Part,
And hide with
Ornaments their Want of Art.
True Wit is
Nature to Advantage drest,
What oft was Thought, but
ne'er so well Exprest,
Something, whose Truth convinc'd
at Sight we find,
That gives us back the Image of our Mind:
As Shades more sweetly recommend the Light,
So
modest Plainness sets off sprightly Wit:
For Works may have more
Wit than does 'em good,
As Bodies perish through Excess
of Blood.
305 Others for Language all their Care express,
And value
Books, as Women Men, for Dress:
Their Praise is
still—The Stile is excellent:
The Sense, they humbly
take upon Content.
Words are like Leaves; and where they
most abound,
Much Fruit of Sense beneath is rarely found.
False Eloquence, like the Prismatic
Glass,
Its gawdy Colours spreads on ev'ry place;
The Face
of Nature was no more Survey,
All glares alike, without
Distinction gay:
But true Expression, like th' unchanging
Sun,
Clears, and improves whate'er it shines
upon,
It gilds all Objects, but it alters
none.
Expression is the Dress of Thought, and
still
Appears more decent as more suitable;
A vile
Conceit in pompous Words exprest,
Is like a Clown
in regal Purple drest;
For diff'rent Styles with diff'rent
Subjects sort,
As several Garbs with Country, Town, and
Court.
Some by Old Words to Fame have made Pretence;
Ancients
in Phrase, meer Moderns in their Sense!
Such labour'd
Nothings, in so strange a Style,
Amaze th'unlearn'd,
and make the Learned Smile.
Unlucky, as Fungoso in the
Play,
These Sparks with aukward Vanity display
What the Fine
Gentleman wore Yesterday!
And but so mimick
ancient Wits at best,
As Apes our Grandsires in their Doublets
treat.
In Words, as Fashions, the same Rule will
hold;
Alike Fantastick, if too New, or Old;
Be not the
first by whom the New are try'd,
Nor yet the last
to lay the Old aside.
337 But most by Numbers judge a Poet's Song,
And smooth or
rough, with them, is right or wrong;
In the bright
Muse tho' thousand Charms conspire,
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
Musick there.
344 These Equal Syllables alone
require,
Tho' 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 same unvary'd
Chimes,
With sure Returns of still expected
Rhymes.
Where-e'er you find the cooling Western Breeze,
In the next Line, it whispers thro' the
Trees;
If Chrystal Streams with pleasing Murmurs
creep,
The Reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with
Sleep.
Then, at the last, and only Couplet
fraught
With some unmeaning Thing they call a
Thought,
A needless Alexandrine ends the Song,
That
like a wounded Snake, drags its slow length along.
Leave such to tune
their own dull Rhimes, and know
What's roundly smooth, or
languishingly slow;
And praise the Easie Vigor 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
Harshness gives Offence,
The Sound must seem an Eccho 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 sounding Shore,
The hoarse,
rough Verse shou'd like the Torrent roar.
When Ajax
strives, some Rocks' vast Weight to throw,
The
Line too labours, and the Words move slow;
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 Lybian 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 subdu'd by Sound!
The Pow'rs of Musick all our
Hearts allow;
And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now.
384 Avoid Extreams; and shun the Fault of such,
Who still are
pleas'd too little, or too much.
At ev'ry Trifle scorn to
take Offence,
That always shows Great Pride, or Little
Sense;
Those Heads as Stomachs are not sure the
best
Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest.
Yet let not each
gay Turn thy Rapture move,
For Fools
Admire, but Men of Sense Approve;
As things seem
large which we thro' 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.)
398 Meanly they seek the Blessing to
confine,
And force that Sun but on a Part to
Shine;
Which not alone the Southern Wit sublimes,
But ripens Spirits in cold Northern
Climes;
Which from the first has shone on Ages past,
Enlights
the present, and shall warm the last:
(Tho' each
may feel Increases and Decays,
And see now clearer
and now darker Days)
406 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.
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 Critick
at the Great-man's Board,
To fetch and carry Nonsense for
my Lord.
What woful stuff this Madrigal wou'd be,
To some
starv'd Hackny Sonneteer, or me?
But let a Lord once own the
happy Lines,
How the Wit brightens!
How the Style refines!
Before his sacred Name flies ev'ry
Fault,
And each exalted Stanza teems with Thought!
424 The Vulgar thus through Imitation err;
As oft the
Learn'd by being Singular;
So much they scorn the Crowd,
that if the Throng
By Chance go right, they purposely go
wrong;
So Schismatics the plain Believers quit,
And are but
damn'd for having too much Wit.
Some praise at Morning what they blame at Night;
But always think the last Opinion
right.
A Muse by these is like a Mistress 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.
Ask them the Cause; They're wiser still, they say;
And still to Morrow's wiser than to Day.
We think our Fathers Fools,
so wise we grow;
Our wiser Sons, no doubt, will think us
so.
Once School-Divines this zealous Isle o'erspread;
Who knew most Sentences was deepest
read;
Faith, Gospel, All, seem'd made to be disputed,
And none had Sense enough to be Confuted.
Scotists and Thomists, now, in Peace remain,
Amidst their kindred Cobwebs in Duck-Lane.
If Faith it self has diff'rent Dresses worn,
What wonder Modes in Wit shou'd 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.
452 Some valuing those of their own, Side or Mind,
Still
make themselves the measure of Mankind;
Fondly we think we honour Merit
then,
When we but praise Our selves in Other
Men.
Parties in Wit attend on those of State,
And
publick Faction doubles private Hate.
Pride, Malice,
Folly, against Dryden rose,
In various Shapes of
Parsons, Criticks, Beaus;
But Sense surviv'd, when merry Jests were past;
For rising Merit will buoy up at last.
Might he return, and bless
once more our Eyes,
New Blackmores and new Milbourns must arise;
Nay shou'd great Homer lift his awful Head,
Zoilus again would start up from the Dead.
Envy will Merit as its Shade pursue,
But like a Shadow, proves
the Substance true;
For envy'd Wit, like Sol Eclips'd,
makes known
Th' opposing Body's Grossness, not its
own.
When first that Sun too powerful Beams displays,
It draws up Vapours which obscure its Rays;
But
ev'n those Clouds at last adorn its Way,
Reflect new Glories, and
augment the Day.
Be thou the first true Merit to befriend;
His Praise
is lost, who stays till All commend;
Short is the Date, alas, of
Modern Rhymes;
And 'tis but just to let 'em live
betimes.
No longer now that Golden Age appears,
When
Patriarch-Wits surviv'd thousand Years;
Now Length of
Fame (our second Life) is lost,
And
bare Threescore is all ev'n That can boast:
Our Sons their Fathers'
failing language see,
And such as Chaucer is, shall
Dryden be.
So when the faithful Pencil has
design'd
Some bright Idea of the Master's Mind,
Where a
new World leaps out at his command,
And ready Nature waits upon
his Hand;
When the ripe Colours soften and unite,
And
sweetly melt into just Shade and Light,
When mellowing Years
their full Perfection give,
And each Bold Figure
just begins to Live;
The treach'rous Colours the fair Art
betray,
And all the bright Creation fades away!
Unhappy Wit, like most mistaken Things,
Attones not for that
Envy which it brings.
In Youth alone its empty Praise we
boast,
But soon the Short-liv'd Vanity is lost!
Like some fair
Flow'r the early Spring supplies,
That gaily Blooms, but
ev'n in blooming Dies.
What is this Wit which must our Cares
employ?
The Owner's Wife, that other
Men enjoy,
Then most our Trouble still when most
admir'd,
And still the more we give, the more
requir'd;
Whose Fame with Pains we guard, but lose with
Ease,
Sure some to vex, but never all to
please;
'Tis what the Vicious fear, the Virtuous
shun;
By Fools 'tis hated, and by Knaves undone!
If Wit so much from Ign'rance undergo,
Ah let not
Learning too commence its Foe!
Of old, those met
Rewards who cou'd excel,
And such
were Prais'd who but endeavour'd well:
Tho'
Triumphs were to Gen'rals only due,
Crowns were
reserv'd to grace the Soldiers too.
Now, they who reached
Parnassus' lofty Crown,
Employ their Pains to spurn some others
down;
And while Self-Love each jealous Writer rules,
Contending
Wits becomes the Sport of Fools:
But still the Worst
with most 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' Sacred Lust of
praise!
Ah ne'er so dire a Thirst of Glory
boast,
Nor in the Critick let the Man be
lost!
Good-Nature and Good-Sense must ever join;
To
err is Humane; to Forgive, Divine.
But if in Noble Minds some Dregs remain,
Not yet purg'd off, of
Spleen and sow'r Disdain,
Discharge that Rage on more Provoking
Crimes,
Nor fear a Dearth in these Flagitious Times.
No Pardon vile
Obscenity should find,
Tho' Wit and
Art conspire to move your Mind;
But Dulness with
Obscenity must prove
As Shameful sure as Importance in
Love.
In the fat Age of Pleasure, Wealth, and Ease,
Sprung
the rank Weed, and thriv'd with large Increase;
When Love was
all an easie Monarch's Care;
Seldom at Council, never in a War:
Jilts rul'd the State, and Statesmen Farces writ;
Nay Wits had Pensions, and young Lords had
Wit:
The Fair sate panting at a Courtier's Play,
And not a Mask went un-improv'd away:
The modest Fan was liked up no more,
And Virgins smil'd
at what they blush'd before —
The following Licence of a Foreign Reign
Did all the Dregs of bold Socinus drain;
Then Unbelieving Priests reform'd the Nation,
And taught more
Pleasant Methods of Salvation;
Where Heav'ns Free Subjects might
their Rights dispute,
Lest God himself shou'd seem too
Absolute.
Pulpits their Sacred Satire learn'd to
spare,
And Vice admir'd to find a Flatt'rer there!
Encourag'd thus, Witt's Titans brav'd the Skies,
And the Press groan'd with Licenc'd Blasphemies—
These Monsters, Criticks! with your Darts engage,
Here point your
Thunder, and exhaust your Rage!
Yet shun their Fault, who,
Scandalously nice,
Will needs mistake an Author into
Vice;
All seems Infected that th' Infected spy,
As all looks
yellow to the Jaundic'd Eye.
560 LEARN then what MORALS Criticks ought to
show,
For 'tis but half a Judge's
Task, to Know.
562 'Tis not enough, Taste, Judgment, Learning,
join;
In all you speak, let Truth and Candor shine:
That not alone
what to your Sense is due,
All may allow; but seek your
Friendship too.
566 Be silent always when you doubt your Sense;
And
speak, tho' sure, with seeming Diffidence:
Some
positive persisting Fops we know,
Who, if once wrong, will needs
be always so;
But you, with Pleasure own your Errors past,
An make each Day a Critick on the last.
572 'Tis not enough your Counsel still be true,
Blunt Truths more Mischief than nice Falsehood 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 Superior Sense belov'd.
578 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 so Civil as to prove Unjust;
Fear not the Anger of the Wise to raise;
Those best can bear Reproof, who merit Praise.
584 'Twere well, might Criticks still this Freedom take;
But
Appius reddens at each Word you speak,
And stares, Tremendous! with a threatning Eye
Like some fierce Tyrant in Old Tapestry!
Fear most to tax an Honourable Fool,
Whose Right it is, uncensur'd to be dull;
Such without Wit are Poets when they please.
As without Learning they can take
Degrees.
Leave dang'rous Truths to unsuccessful
Satyrs,
And Flattery to fulsome
Dedicators,
Whom, when they Praise, the World believes no
more,
Than when they promise to give Scribling o'er.
'Tis
best sometimes your Censure to restrain,
And charitably let the
Dull be vain:
Your Silence there is better than your
Spite,
For who can rail so long as they can
write?
Still humming on, their drowzy Course they keep,
And lash'd so long, like Tops, are
lash'd asleep.
False Steps but help them to renew the
Race,
As after Stumbling, Jades will mend their
Pace.
What Crouds of these, impenitently bold,
In Sounds and
jingling Syllables grown old,
Still run on Poets in a
raging Vein,
Ev'n to the Dregs and Squeezings of the
Brain;
Strain out the last, dull droppings of their
Sense,
And Rhyme with all the Rage of Impotence!
Such shameless Bards we have; and yet 'tis true,
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 still edifies
his Ears,
And always List'ning to Himself appears.
All Books
he reads, and all he reads assails,
From Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's Tales.
With him, most Authors steal their Works, or buy;
Garth did not write his own Dispensary.
Name a new Play, and he's the Poet's Friend,
Nay show'd his Faults—but when wou'd Poets
mend?
No Place so Sacred from such Fops is barr'd,
Nor is Paul's Church more safe than Paul's Church-yard:
Nay, fly to Altars; there they'll talk you dead;
For Fools
rush in where Angels fear to tread.
Distrustful Sense
with modest Caution speaks;
It still looks home, and short
Excursions makes;
But ratling Nonsense in full
Vollies breaks;
And never shock'd, and never turn'd
aside,
Bursts out, resistless, with a thundering Tyde!
But where's the Man, who Counsel can bestow,
Still
pleas'd to teach, and not proud to
know?
Unbiass'd, or by Favour or by Spite;
Not
dully prepossest, nor blindly right;
Tho' Learn'd
well-bred; and tho' well-bred, sincere;
Modestly bold, and Humanly
severe?
Who to a Friend his Faults can freely show,
And
gladly praise the Merit of a Foe?
Blest with a Taste
exact, yet unconfin'd;
A Knowledge both of Books and
Humankind;
Gen'rous Converse; a Sound exempt from Pride;
And Love to Praise, with Reason on his Side?
643 Such once were Criticks, such the Happy
Few,
Athens and Rome in better Ages knew.
The mighty Stagyrite first left the Shore,
Spread all his Sails, and durst the Deeps explore;
He steer'd securely, and discover'd far,
Led by the Light of the Maeonian Star.
Poets, a Race long unconfin'd and free,
Still fond and proud of Savage Liberty,
Receiv'd his Laws, and stood convinc'd 'twas fit
Who conquer'd Nature, shou'd preside o'er Wit.
Horace still charms with graceful Negligence,
And without
Method talks us into Sense,
Will like a Friend familarly
convey
The truest Notions in the easiest way.
He, who
Supream in Judgment, as in Wit,
Might boldly censure, as he boldly
writ,
Yet judg'd with Coolness tho' he sung with
Fire;
His Precepts teach but what his Works
inspire.
Our Criticks take a contrary
Extream,
They judge with Fury, but they write with
Fle'me:
Nor suffers Horace more in wrong
Translations
By Wits, than Criticks in as wrong
Quotations.
See Dionysius Homer's Thoughts refine,
And call new Beauties forth from ev'ry Line!
Fancy and Art in gay Petronius please,
The Scholar's Learning, with the Courtier's Ease.
In grave Quintilian's copious Work we find
The justest Rules, and clearest Method join'd;
Thus useful Arms in Magazines we
place,
All rang'd in Order, and dispos'd with
Grace,
But less to please the Eye, than arm the Hand,
Still
fit for Use, and ready at Command.
Thee, bold Longinus! all the Nine inspire,
And bless their Critick with a Poet's Fire.
An ardent Judge, who Zealous in his Trust,
With Warmth gives Sentence, yet is always
Just;
Whose own Example strengthens all his Laws,
And
Is himself that great Sublime he draws.
Thus long succeeding Criticks justly reign'd,
Licence
repress'd, and useful Laws ordain'd;
Learning and
Rome alike in Empire grew,
And Arts still follow'd
where her Eagles flew;
From the same Foes, at last, both felt
their Doom,
And the same Age saw Learning fall, and
Rome.
With Tyranny, then Superstition
join'd,
As that the Body, this enslav'd the Mind;
Much
was Believ'd, but little understood,
And to be
dull was constru'd to be good;
A
second Deluge Learning thus o'er-run,
And the Monks
finish'd what the Goths begun.
At length, Erasmus, that great, injur'd Name,
(The Glory of the Priesthood, and the Shame!)
Stemm'd the wild Torrent of a barb'rous
Age.
And drove those Holy Vandals off the Stage.
But see! each Muse, in Leo's Golden Days,
Starts from her Trance, and trims her wither'd
Bays!
Rome's ancient Genius, o'er its Ruins
spread,
Shakes off the Dust, and rears his rev'rend Head!
Then Sculpture and her Sister-Arts
revive;
Stones leap'd to Form, and Rocks began to
live;
With sweeter Notes each rising Temple
rung;
A Raphael painted, and a Vida sung!
Immortal Vida! on whose honour'd Brow
The Poet's Bays and Critick's Ivy grow:
Cremona now shall ever boast thy Name,
As next in Place to Mantua, next in Fame!
But soon by Impious Arms from Latium chas'd,
Their ancient
Bounds the banish'd Muses past:
Thence Arts
o'er all the Northern World advance,
But Critic Learning
flourish'd most in France.
The Rules, a Nation born to
serve, obeys,
And Boileau still in Right of Horace sways.
But we, brave Britons, Foreign Laws
despis'd,
And kept unconquer'd and unciviliz'd,
Fierce for the Liberties of Wit, and bold,
We still defy'd the Romans as of old.
Yet some there were, among the sounder Few
Of those who less presum'd, and better knew,
Who durst assert the juster Ancient Cause,
And here restor'd Wit's Fundamental Laws.
Such was the Muse, whose Rules and Practice tell,
Nature's chief Master-piece is writing well.
Such was Roscomon—not more learn'd than good,
With
Manners gen'rous as his Noble Blood;
To him the Wit of Greece
and Rome was known,
And ev'ry Author's Merit, but his
own.
Such late was Walsh,—the Muse's Judge and Friend,
Who justly knew to blame or to commend;
To Failings mild, but zealous for Desert;
The clearest Head, and the sincerest Heart.
This humble Praise, lamented
Shade! receive,
This Praise at least a grateful Muse may
give!
The Muse, whose early Voice you taught to Sing,
Prescrib'd her
Heights, and prun'd her tender Wing,
(Her Guide now lost) no more
attempts to rise,
But in low Numbers short Excursions
tries:
Content, if hence th' Unlearned their Wants may view,
The
Learn'd reflect on what before they knew:
Careless of Censure, not too fond of Fame,
Still pleas'd to praise, yet not afraid to blame,
Averse alike to Flatter, or Offend,
744 Not free from Faults, nor yet too vain to mend.