Note TK.
| ’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 | ||
| 10 | 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 | ||
| 20 | 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. | ||
| 30 | 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. | ||
| 40 | 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. | ||
| 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; | ||
| 50 | 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. | ||
| 60 | 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. | ||
| 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. | ||
| Those Rules of old discover’d, not devis’d, | ||
| Are Nature still, but Nature Methodiz’d; | ||
| 90 | 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 | ||
| 100 | 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; | ||
| 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, | ||
| 110 | 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 | ||
| You then whose Judgment the right Course wou’d steer, | ||
| Know well each Ancient’s proper Character, | ||
| 120 | 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.° | Virgil | |
| 130 | When first young Maro° in his boundless Mind | Virgil |
| 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 Stagyrite° o’er looked each Line. | Aristotle | |
| Learn hence for Ancient Rules a just Esteem; | ||
| 140 | To copy Nature is to copy Them. | |
| 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. | ||
| 150 | Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take, | |
| May boldly deviate from the common Track. | ||
| Great Wits° sometimes may gloriously offend, | intelligences | |
| 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, | ||
| 160 | 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,° | rule — purpose | |
| 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 | ||
| 170 | 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, | ||
| 180 | Nor is it Homer Nods, but We that Dream. | |
| Still green with Bays° each ancient Altar stands, | wreathes to honor poets | |
| 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; | ||
| 190 | 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, | ||
| 200 | T’ admire Superior Sense, and doubt their own! | |
| 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, | ||
| 210 | 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, | small sips | |
| And drinking largely sobers us again. | ||
| Fir’d at first Sight with what the Muse imparts, | ||
| 220 | 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 | ||
| 230 | 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! | ||
| 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, | songs or poems | |
| 240 | 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; | ||
| 250 | All comes united to th’ admiring Eyes; | |
| No monstrous Height, or Breadth, or Length appear; | ||
| The Whole at once is Bold, and Regular. | ||
| 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; | accomplish | |
| 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, | ||
| 260 | 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. | ||
| Once on a time, La Mancha’s Knight,° they say, | Don Quixote | |
| A certain Bard encountring on the Way, | ||
| Discours’d in Terms as just, with Looks as Sage, | ||
| 270 | As e’er cou’d Dennis,° of the Grecian Stage; | Pope’s rival, critic John Dennis |
| Concluding all were desp’rate Sots and Fools, | ||
| Who durst° depart from Aristotle’s Rules. | dared | |
| Our Author, happy° in a Judge so nice, | fortunate | |
| 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; | ||
| 280 | Yes, or we must renounce the Stagyrite.° | Aristotle |
| 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,° | fussy | |
| Form short Ideas; and offend in Arts | ||
| (As most in Manners) by a Love to Parts. | ||
| Some to Conceit alone their Taste confine, | ||
| 290 | 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.° | lack of skill | |
| True Wit is Nature to Advantage dress’t, | ||
| What oft was Thought, but ne’er so well Exprest, | ||
| Something, whose Truth convinc’d at Sight we find, | ||
| 300 | 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. | ||
| 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, | ||
| 310 | 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. | brightens | |
| Expression is the Dress of Thought, and still | ||
| Appears more decent as more suitable; | ||
| 320 | A vile Conceit° in pompous Words exprest, | metaphor |
| Is like a Clown° in regal Purple° drest; | country bumpkin — (color of royalty) | |
| 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 | ||
| 330 | What the Fine Gentleman wore Yesterday! | |
| And but so mimick ancient Wits at best, | ||
| As Apes our Grandsires in their Doublets° drest. | old-fashioned jacket | |
| 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. | ||
| But most by Numbers° judge a Poet’s Song, | poetic meter | |
| And smooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong; | ||
| In the bright Muse tho’ thousand Charms conspire, | ||
| 340 | Her Voice is all these tuneful Fools admire, | |
| Who haunt Parnassus° but to please their Ear, | mountain sacred to poetry | |
| Not mend their Minds; as some to Church repair,° | go | |
| Not for the Doctrine, but the Musick there. | ||
| 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. | ||
| 350 | 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, | twelve-syllable line | |
| 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; | ||
| 360 | 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, | mastery of technique | |
| 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, | gentle western breeze | |
| And the smooth Stream in smoother Numbers° flows; | poetic meter | |
| But when loud Surges lash the sounding Shore, | ||
| The hoarse, rough Verse shou’d like the Torrent roar. | ||
| 370 | 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, | songs | |
| 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: | ||
| 380 | 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. | ||
| 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. | ||
| 390 | 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.) | ||
| Meanly they seek the Blessing to confine, | ||
| And force that Sun but on a Part to Shine; | ||
| 400 | 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) | ||
| 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; | ||
| 410 | 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, | song | |
| To some starv’d Hackny° Sonneteer, or me? | for-hire | |
| 420 | 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! | ||
| 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. | ||
| 430 | 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. | ||
| 440 | Once School-Divines° this zealous Isle o’erspread; | medieval theologians |
| Who knew most Sentences° was deepest read; | wise sayings | |
| Faith, Gospel, All, seem’d made to be disputed, | ||
| And none had Sense enough to be Confuted.° | proven wrong | |
| Scotists and Thomists,° now, in Peace remain, | (schools of medieval religious thought) | |
| 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, | ||
| 450 | And Authors think their Reputation safe, | |
| Which lives as long as Fools are pleas’d to Laugh. | ||
| 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; | ||
| 460 | 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 | the sun | |
| Th’ opposing Body’s Grossness, not its own. | ||
| 470 | 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.° | for a short time | |
| No longer now that Golden Age appears, | ||
| When Patriarch-Wits surviv’d thousand Years; | ||
| 480 | Now Length of Fame (our second Life) is lost, | |
| And bare Threescore° is all ev’n That can boast: | sixty | |
| Our Sons their Fathers’ failing language see, | ||
| And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be. | ||
| So when the faithful Pencil° has design’d | paintbrush | |
| 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, | ||
| 490 | When mellowing Years their full Perfection give, | |
| And each Bold Figure just begins to Live; | ||
| The treach’rous Colours the fair Art° betray, | technique | |
| 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. | ||
| 500 | 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! | ||
| 510 | 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, | mountain sacred to poetry | |
| 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. | ||
| 520 | 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, | bad temper | |
| Discharge that Rage on more Provoking Crimes, | ||
| Nor fear a Dearth in these Flagitious° Times. | scandalous | |
| 530 | 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 Impotence 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; | (insulting term for women) | |
| Nay Wits had Pensions, and young Lords had Wit: | ||
| 540 | The Fair sate panting at a Courtier’s Play, | |
| And not a Mask went un-improv’d away: | ||
| The modest Fan was lifted 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. | ||
| 550 | 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. | ||
| ’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. | ||
| Be silent always when you doubt your Sense; | ||
| And speak, tho’ sure, with seeming Diffidence:° | modesty, deference | |
| Some positive persisting Fops we know, | ||
| Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so; | ||
| 570 | But you, with Pleasure own your Errors past, | |
| And make each Day a Critick on the last. | ||
| ’Tis not enough your Counsel still be true, | ||
| Blunt Truths more Mischief than nice° Falsehood do; | fussy | |
| 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. | ||
| Be Niggards° of Advice on no Pretence; | misers | |
| For the worst Avarice is that of Sense: | ||
| 580 | 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. | tolerate criticism | |
| ’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; | ||
| 590 | 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, | blame | |
| 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? | ||
| 600 | 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. | worn-out horses | |
| 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! | ||
| 610 | 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. | ||
| 620 | 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:° | location of many bookshops | |
| 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, | ||
| 630 | 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; | ||
| 640 | A Knowledge both of Books and Humankind; | |
| Gen’rous Converse; a Sound exempt from Pride; | ||
| And Love to Praise, with Reason on his Side? | ||
| Such once were Criticks, such the Happy Few, | ||
| Athens and Rome in better Ages knew. | ||
| The mighty Stagyrite° first left the Shore, | Aristotle | |
| Spread all his Sails, and durst° the Deeps explore; | dared | |
| He steer’d securely, and discover’d far, | ||
| Led by the Light of the Maeonian Star.° | Homer | |
| Poets, a Race long unconfin’d and free, | ||
| 650 | 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; | ||
| 660 | His Precepts teach but what his Works inspire. | |
| Our Criticks take a contrary Extream, | ||
| They judge with Fury, but they write with Fle’me:° | phlegm, dullness | |
| 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 | ||
| 670 | 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, | the Muses | |
| 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; | wisdom | |
| Whose own Example strengthens all his Laws, | ||
| 680 | 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, | ||
| 690 | And to be dull was constru’d to be good; | |
| A second Deluge° Learning thus o’er-run, | flood° | |
| 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, | Pope Leo X | |
| Starts from her Trance, and trims her wither’d Bays!° | poetic honors | |
| Rome’s ancient Genius, o’er its Ruins spread, | ||
| 700 | 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, | Italy | |
| 710 | 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 | ||
| 720 | 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, | ||
| 730 | 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, | ||
| 740 | 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, | ||
| Not free from Faults, nor yet too vain to mend. |